


Wicked Graces

by christah88



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Acronym jokes, Aziraphale and Crowley Affect Things That Happen, Crowley has a Really Great Coat, Demons are possessing MPs, Emoji jokes, Gen, Human-focused plot, Humor, I Want To Believe, I want Season 2, Laugh at my jokes or be smote to Hell, M/M, Requisite politicians are demons jokes!, Sacrificing puppies jokes!, aziraphale is conflicted, but don't worry only in insignificant ways, six seasons and a movie, what else do you need?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-05-31 06:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christah88/pseuds/christah88
Summary: “It’s bad news, angel,” Crowley said. “Hell targeting politicians? There’s more than just a little demonic mischief at play here.”Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped. “But why?” he asked. “I thought we’d have more time. It’s only been five years."“Yes, but it’s an election year,” Crowley pointed out. “Probably figured they might as well take advantage of it being all—” he gestured “—fuzzy-wuzzy.”“Fuzzy-wuzzy?” Aziraphale inquired.“You know, wonky.” Crowley shrugged. “Chaotic. Helter-skelter.” They turned the corner of Aziraphale’s bookshop.“Why can’t Heaven and Hell leave us alone?” he cried, unable to stop himself. His brow crinkled in distress. “Rather, why can’t they leave the humans alone, I mean,” he corrected. “We’re just here to protect it all. Earth, free will, the great experiment.”“Maybe,” Crowley said. “Maybe we’re part of it, too.”





	1. The Minister of Trade

**Author's Note:**

> **Wicked Graces: A Compendium of Deeds in the Combat Against Supernatural Interferences on Earth, Abridged**  
>  _Borne of mine grate and terrible defpair_ that this show will not be getting the glorious five-season arc it could have.
> 
> With gratitude and admiration for Sir Terry Pratchett (O’ Captain, my Captain), Neil Gaiman (Chef’s Kiss), David Tennant (Wahoo), and Michael Sheen (I would literally die for you, metaphorically).
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://christah88.tumblr.com/), if you like. I promise you won't even notice I'm there.

Crowley had reason to believe the Minister of Trade was possessed by a demon. The hallmarks were all there: eyeballs dripping with goo, slugs in his nostrils, that sort of thing. The humans didn’t notice, but Crowley wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t something they were accustomed to noticing.

It was the third state secretarial demonic possession in as many weeks. Spring had barely begun to summer when Crowley and the angel interrupted a sunny afternoon jaunt through St. James Park for a quick pop over to the House of Parliament, where they’d paid a not-entirely-genteel visit to the Minister of Culture and Good Sport. The following weekend, they’d packed the Bentley with crucifixes and crudités for a road trip to a remote little cabin in the Cotswolds, incidentally owned by the Minister of Staying Well Out of It.

Crowley kept his ear to the ground. He was rather fond of laying there, cheek pressed in the cool dirt beside the sidewalk outside his apartment, especially in the moonlight. Little worms whispered back to him.

Demonic activity was rising in London, notably among politicians. This surprised Crowley. What was the purpose? Those souls were slam-dunks for Hell already.

More to the point, since when had the denizens of Hell strategically targeted— well, anyone? Rather a spray-and-pray kind of bunch, ironically enough.

Crowley had noticed the Minister of Trade’s recent acquisition of demonic sludge on a televised press conference the week before. The demon’s soundbites were short, spiteful, and often unintelligible. The reporters didn’t notice, scribbling them down word-for-word.

He’d been especially difficult to pin down, evading a handful of attempts to isolate him. When they learned the minister would be hosting a party in his home that evening— to hobnob, presumably— Aziraphale and Crowley agreed it was time to bring in their merry band of human misfits.

“We go in, we case the joint,” Crowley repeated the plan to his flunkies in the Minister of Trade’s kitchen just before the appetizers were scheduled to go out. The Head Waiter glanced over at them quizzically, but Crowley distracted him with thoughts of overcooked mutton chops. “We find the demon and trap him, signal Aziraphale, then watch the angel’s back. Capiche?”

Sergeant Shadwell pointed a finger at him, then poked at a tray of deviled eggs. He struck an odd figure in his black-and-white suit, complete with bowtie and greased-back ponytail. A sallow young woman by the name of Janet Boggs slapped his hand away and peered doubtfully across the table at Crowley.

“Won’t the demon notice you?” she asked.

Crowley scoffed. “Like this?” He gestured at his own penguin suit and hoisted a plate of beef potstickers. “Hardly.”

Music echoed down the hallway, sounds of merriment increasing as guests began to arrive. A bell tinkled, and they filtered in with the wait staff to pour champagne and pass hors d’oeuvres. Boggs fit in reasonably well, as did the other human, a tall dark-skinned male named Dawkins who had the kind of brooding intensity that Crowley strove to emulate when giving the Almighty the silent treatment. Sergeant Shadwell was overly distracted by his tray of deviled eggs, but remained inconspicuous enough.

Crowley scanned the front hallway, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. The foyer was overrun with hoity-toity political types munching on delicate pastries and commenting upon London’s entirely-typical weather. It was the kind of party Aziraphale would call a ‘delightfully dignified affair’. Crowley briefly considered miracling up a pile of blow in the nearest bathroom, just for old times’ sake.

The Minister of Trade did not make an immediate appearance. Crowley circled the house and studied the guests.

“This dumpling is entirely divine,” a woman said, attacking it with indecent enthusiasm. “Mm, what is that seasoning? You must tell me.”

“What?” A crowd had gathered in the living room, drawing Crowley’s attention. “Oh, mm, uh,” he said, distracted, trying to remember one of Aziraphale’s recent culinary rhapsodies. “Eau du foie gras,” he answered and slunk away to examine the crowd.

Sulfur wafted tantalizingly in his nostrils. The demon-possessed Minister of Trade held court at the center of the room. He waved his arms grotesquely and grunted, blood pooling in his eyeballs. His hangers-on laughed politely.

“Signal the angel,” Crowley hissed at Boggs. She nodded and spun on her heel, slipping away into the party. Crowley returned his attention to the demon.

“Got you now, you slippery snake,” he muttered. “Well, not snake, I like snakes. I am a snake,” he reminded himself. “Slippery little… salamander,” he said instead. “Iguana, maybe.” Soon, the demon would be smote back to Hell and the Minister of Trade would return to normal, human again, sans slime. Crowley and the angel would return to the bookshop and enjoy that lovely vintage cabernet he’d found gathering dust in the basement. Everything was going according to plan. All that was left was Aziraphale’s part.

Crowley sighed, preparing for trouble. The angel did have a charming way of mucking things up.

* * *

In a darkened driveway three houses down, Aziraphale fiddled with his starched collar, then checked the sleeves of his suit coat for lint. The Bentley lurked like an oversized mechanical aardvark in the shadows.

“How do I look?” he said, trying not to preen. He asked for the sake of the mission. His vanity had nothing to do with it.

Madame Tracy eyed him up and down. “Like an overly cheerful priest,” she said, which really was not helpful at all.

Aziraphale huffed. He forced himself to still his hands and fold them together at his waist. He returned the woman’s once-over with a touch of haughtiness.

His stiffness melted away in a smile that would warm the heart of a cryogenically-frozen polar bear. “Oh, my dear, you look wonderful. You’re downright pious,” he gushed. Madame Tracy simpered in her black robe and habit, a gold crucifix hanging from her neck. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the other two humans behind her. “You all do,” he said with genuine esteem.

“That’s kind of you,” said Sister Indiana Precocious of the American Convent of Divine Enterprises. She looked down at her traditional garb and struck a pose that was decidedly un-nunlike, at least in Aziraphale’s British experience. “Didn’t even have to change my rosary.” Sister Liz Placid nodded beatifically beside her.

The story of how Aziraphale had recruited the nuns to their cause was not overly long, but it was terribly American, and off-topic to the matter at hand. As it was, Crowley’s signal had just come through in the form of something called a ‘text message.’ A chime sounded from Sister Indiana Precocious’ pocket, and she pulled out her thin rectangular computer-thingy. She swiped at the screen, then looked up with excitement.

“It’s go time.”

They hurried down the sidewalk, past sprawling, posh mansions, the kind with railinged balconies and Olympic-sized swimming pools in the backyard. They ducked through a wrought-iron gate outside the Minister of Trade’s house, and scurried past his valets, Aziraphale gently persuading their attention elsewhere.

He took a breath at the door and wrestled his angelic presence into a stoic man of the cloth. They’d settled on this disguise not because it was helpful in diverting attention, but because angelic smitings can appear quite similar to priestly exorcisms, and people are generally satisfied enough to stop asking questions when they happen to stumble upon something that looks like an exorcism if they have reason to believe it is, indeed, an exorcism.

Aziraphale pushed open the door, eyes brightening at the genteel revelry within. The nuns and Madame Tracy clustered close at his back. He scanned the foyer, searching for a flash of copper hair, the glint of dark glasses. The demon would sense his presence, so they must act quickly—

“Oh, Father, thank you so much for coming.” A hawk-eyed woman descended upon him. Her soul was in terrible tumult, impressed as it was with the quite unconscious premonition that her husband had turned into a demon. “Did you find the house alright?” the Minister’s wife continued, though Aziraphale’s name was most assuredly not on her guest list. She took the priest’s arm and leaned in close, lowering her voice.

“Might I speak with you, Father?” she asked. “It’s only, I’ve been having these terrible thoughts— fire and brimstone, little horned goblins, and I thought, well, probably past due for confession.” She giggled nervously.

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale blustered, glancing around. The living room was crowded with people, and he didn’t see Crowley anywhere. “That’s— normally, I would, of course, being a priest and all: heal the woes, herd the flock, you know. It’s only, I’m meeting someone—”

“Please, Father,” the Minister’s wife squeezed his arm. She flicked her head, then reached out and stopped a waiter with a loaded tray of savory nibbles. She waved at the food. “Turkish pastry?”

Aziraphale hesitated. The Minister’s wife sensed weakness, and tipped the tray closer.

The angel relented. It would be the height of discourtesy not to accept such a delightful offering.

“It all started with that bill we sponsored, the one about waste dispersal in local tributaries, and all that trouble with the trout,” the Minister’s wife said, and pulled him further into the hallway.

* * *

The demon was onto them. The moment Aziraphale stepped through the door, the Minister had straightened, looking around suspiciously. Crowley sidestepped behind a delicate ficus plant and watched through the leaves. Pathetic, he thought, directing his contempt towards the tree’s modest limbs. The ficus bristled, unused to such rudeness in his own home.

The Minister of Trade slouched from the room. A trail of worms dropped from his pant leg, wriggling into the pristine carpet. Crowley ducked from behind the plant and followed him. Dawkins and Sergeant Shadwell followed suit, tailing Crowley.

“Go ahead,” he directed Dawkins. “Take the Sergeant and block the back hallway.”

He stopped in the foyer, eyes drawn by the angel’s presence. Aziraphale lolled near the door, working his way through a tray of nibbles. A dark-haired woman clung to his arm, chattering in his ear. Aziraphale nodded, eyes cast downwards as he listened to her steady stream of woes.

“For the love of all that is wicked and dreadful,” Crowley muttered. It wasn’t uncommon for the angel to be stopped by humans drawn to his divine energy and quiet comfort. Aziraphale’s presence was like basking in the sun on an old couch that had been worn down in all the right places. But they had a job to do, and there wasn’t time for the angel’s kind dawdling.

Crowley tried to catch his eye. He coughed once, then again. ‘Aziraphale’ was not exactly the easiest name to cough unobtrusively, but Crowley managed. The angel glanced up at him and widened his eyes in apology. He tilted his head meaningfully at the woman beside him.

Crowley tilted his head meaningfully down the hallway.

Aziraphale pointed his chin at the nuns clustered a few steps away.

Crowley shook his head quickly, then nodded again at Aziraphale, flicking his head once more at the hallway.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. Infuriatingly, he tilted his head at the woman again.

“I’m going to feed him to the dolphins,” Crowley promised. He whirled around and stomped down the hallway. He found Boggs and snapped his fingers. A tray of spider sushi rolls appeared in her hands.

“Get the angel,” he hissed at her, and went to trap a demon.

Aziraphale hurried up to him a few minutes later.

“Sorry,” he whispered breathlessly, brushing sticky crumbs from his lapel. “She was ever so insistent, poor dear, and in such a dreadful state.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley grumbled, arms crossed. He slunk in the doorway of a bathroom off the back quarters. The door was locked tight behind him, and inside the Minister of Trade crawled its four walls, searching for an escape. “Well, we’re all here. Let’s get this party started. Angel, the honors.” He swept an arm courteously at the door. The three nuns and three waiters leaned in eagerly to watch.

“Right.” Aziraphale snapped to attention. He fluttered his hands above his head, performing a quick sign of the cross, followed by the sign of the benediction, and then the _mano pantea_ , just for good measure. “May the soul of the Almighty, present within all Creation, dispel the powers of darkness here with us tonight— except for Crowley, of course— Protect us from evil actors and inclinations, and surround us with Your love, that we might banish this demon back to Hell— specifically, the one in the bathroom; once again: not Crowley.”

Aziraphale gave a short sigh of frustration. Crowley summoned the powers of Hell to suppress his smirk.

“I wear the helmet of salvation and hope,” the angel continued. Divine energy began to swirl around them, crackling between air molecules. “I carry the shield of faith. I hold the sword of the spirit—”

“Not the one you gave away?” Crowley couldn’t help but double-check. “Flaming sword, you know, might be damn useful right about now.”

“No- obviously, not the sword I gave away,” Aziraphale said, veering toward peevish. “It’s a metaphor, Crowley. For love and- well, other celestial things. You know, cutting out the Prince of Darkness with the power of unconditional love and supplication.” He blinked earnestly.

“Hm. Right.” Crowley considered that. “Demons usually just use real swords,” he told him. 

“Oh, why bother.” Aziraphale threw up his hands. “This room is about as blessed as it’s going to be. Let’s get on with it.” He nodded at the door.

Crowley straightened. “You heard the angel.” He glared threateningly at the humans from behind his sunglasses. “Holy water, at the ready.” Shadwell, Boggs and Dawkins lifted matching spray bottles. “Crucifixes, up— watch it,” he hissed when the short pushy nun nearly knocked him in the arm with hers. She took a step back, eyes wide. Her expression was far more enthralled and far less terrified than he would have liked.

“Ready?” He waited for Aziraphale’s nod, then kicked open the door.

The Minister of Trade jumped back, startled and snarling.

“You’re a demon!” he gasped, recognizing Crowley’s hellish anatomy. “And- and- with an angel?” His eyes bugged out of his head, oozing slime down his neck all over the Minister’s paisley tie. Crowley wrinkled his nose. Was a bit of style so much to ask?

“That’s right,” Aziraphale announced behind him. Crowley could hear his nose sticking up in the air. “And you, ghastly demon, will forthwith be leaving this poor man alone and going straight back to Hell.”

The demon’s eyes rolled in head. He spit out a few choice curses, his voice thick with demonic fury. He looked from Crowley to the angel, measuring the distance between them and the door. The humans gathered closer, brandishing their weapons.

“You associate with humans?” the demon snarled. “An angel is bad enough, but—”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you demons can’t maintain a decent conversation,” Crowley said. “It’s always, torture this, and misery that. Sometimes I just want to talk about—” He floundered. “Pigeons. And ducks!”

“What is it with you and ducks?” Aziraphale wondered, not sounding like he ever expected an answer.

The demon’s eyes flicked between them. He changed tactics abruptly.

“Please,” he begged. “I don’t want to go back down there. All that red tape.”

Crowley clucked in sympathy. “I know, mate. It’s so tacky—”

“You don’t understand,” the demon grunted. “I was in medical claims processing.”

“Oof. Tough luck,” Crowley said. “Right, well. You can’t possess a human being and take away their soul. It’s, like, not fair or something. Off you go, now.”

He turned, inclined his head at the angel. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and nodded back. Crowley swept through the door.

“You’ll pay for this, traitor.” The demon’s voice was thick and pointed like a baseball bat with nails all stuck in it. “I will crush your bones to dust. I will chew out your eyeballs and feast on your twisted little heart—”

“Really,” Aziraphale tutted. “I hope the next time you come to Earth, you do a bit of research first about proper decorum.” He straightened his jacket.

Crowley closed the door and stepped back, watching it carefully. A bright light flashed from within, illuminating the door jamb. The humans murmured, shielding their eyes. The air tasted odd, like split molecules. 

Inside the bathroom, a demon had been smote back to Hell.

“I wonder what an angel really looks like,” Madame Tracy said. Her voice was breathy, ecclesiastical almost. “I bet it’s incredible.”

“Terrifying, more like,” the pushy nun interjected. “With thundering wings and a thousand eyes, and a great silver horn—”

“A horn?” Crowley interrupted in disbelief. “Aziraphale hasn’t got a horn.”

The nun peered at him. “But the eyes?”

Crowley paused. “More than two,” he confided.

The door flung open, and Aziraphale stood triumphantly before them.

“Well, that’s that,” he said, brushing his hands together officiously. “Evil banished, and the righteous prevail!” His eyes flickered to Crowley. “The nonconformists, too,” he added. Crowley preened, pleased.

He heard a tittering behind him, and turned to find the nuns in a huddle with Boggs leaning in nearby. Crowley lifted an eyebrow. Sister Precocious pointed a trembling finger over his shoulder.

He looked back at the angel. “Ah.” He pulled Aziraphale aside and motioned him close. “Not to make things awkward, old friend,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “But I think you’ve forgotten one of your optics.” He pointed a little ways above his head, where a great silver eye glinted, burning almost as cheerfully as Aziraphale’s two human eyes.

“Oh, how embarrassing,” the angel murmured. The apples of his cheeks blushed pink like the first apple. He quickly smoothed his third eye back to its proper dimension — an inverted octave above A minor.

The Minister of Trade stumbled from the bathroom, looking rather worse for wear.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who are you? Where have I been?” He sniffed the air. “Why does it smell like fresh rain?”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale fluttered. “It’s something new.” His eyes flickered, unaccountably, towards Crowley. He approached the Minister of Trade, placed both hands upon the man’s shoulders, and steered him down the hallway. “I think it’s time you speak with your wife,” he said sternly. “Show that good woman a bit more appreciation, hm?”

“And ditch the tie,” Crowley suggested. Aziraphale glanced down at it, stained as it was with demon sludge and a paisley pattern.

“Oh, dear,” he said and snapped a sprightly green bow tie in its place. “That’s better.” He shooed the Minister on his way and turned to the others, his face creasing in a smile.

“Well, who’s up for pie?”

* * *

“It’s bad news, angel,” Crowley said later as they walked back from the diner together. “Hell targeting politicians? There’s more than just a little demonic mischief at play here.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped. “But why?” he asked, more to the Almighty, than to Crowley. “I thought we’d have more time. It’s only been five years.”

“Yes, well, it’s an election year,” Crowley pointed out. “Probably figured they might as well take advantage of it being all—” he gestured “—fuzzy-wuzzy.”

“Fuzzy-wuzzy?” Aziraphale inquired.

“You know, wonky.” Crowley shrugged. “Chaotic. Helter-skelter.” They turned the corner of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“Why can’t Heaven and Hell leave us alone?” he cried, unable to stop himself. His brow crinkled in distress. “Or— rather, why can’t they leave the humans alone, I mean,” he corrected. “We’re just here to protect it all. Earth, free will, the great experiment.”

“Maybe,” Crowley said. “Maybe we’re part of it, too.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked between his. They stopped on the stoop of his bookshop. “I just want-” he started, then swallowed down a shaky sigh. “I just wish we all could have the chance to decide for ourselves.”

They shared a wistful smile. 

“I know you do, angel,” Crowley said.

They entered the bookshop, closing the door to the world behind them.

* * *

Gabriel peered down at the figure slumped at his feet. Not exactly what he was expecting, but interest flickered inside him. There were possibilities, weren’t there— ones he hadn’t considered before.

“They call it ‘the Beloved,’” Michael said, her voice so devoid of inflection she might as well have sneered.

Gabriel looked past her to the Engineer fretting a few steps away. “And why do they call it that?”

The Engineer swallowed. “Well— The experiments— We couldn’t produce the effects you were looking for, as— as you know.” Gabriel’s jaw tightened at his tentative, halting tone. He despised superficial weakness with startling intensity. The Engineer hurried to continue. “The angels were still susceptible to hellfire, and the demons to holy water. But…” He glanced at the prone figure, something like pity flitting across his face. It was gone again as soon as it came, and the Engineer pressed his lips together. “We did find something interesting.”

They approached the motionless being, limbs sprawled in relaxed stupor upon the white marble floor. She was smaller and plainer than Gabriel would have thought.

“What is she?” he asked.

“She—” the Engineer shrugged helplessly. “She feeds off love, but not the love of the Almighty. Not that pure, uninterested love. Love like the humans think of it— specific, intense, and twisted up with self-interest.” He rocked back on his heels. “As part-demon, she is incapable of experiencing love herself, doomed only ever to receive it, and use its power to take the form of one’s adoration.”

Gabriel swiveled around. “So, she’s a shape-shifter?” His voice rose with glee. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

The Engineer was taken aback. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”

Gabriel stopped listening. Yes, this new Creation would do quite well.

He knelt on the floor and shook her by the shoulder. “Wake up,” he said, not modulating his voice in the slightest. “You’ve got a divine purpose. Can’t lounge around here all millennia.”

She blinked at him. “What’s my Name?”

“How should I know?” He shrugged. “The Engineers call you the Beloved.”

“Beloved is what I am,” she said. “What’s my Name?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I don’t know— Karen, Jennifer, whatever you want it to be.”

“I don’t have a Name?” she asked, beginning to tremble. “Why didn’t the Almighty give me one?”

“The Almighty didn’t exactly Create you,” Gabriel said. “Haven’t actually seen the all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present being in a while, to tell you the truth.”

The Beloved stared at him with dismay.

“But, hey—” He clapped his hands together. “Have I got a surprise for you. All-expenses paid vacation to Earth, what do you say? Just a few, minor tasks to complete for the powers of Heaven, in between all the sightseeing.”

“Earth,” the Beloved repeated, trying this new word on for size.

“That’s right,” Gabriel nodded, then raised an eyebrow at the Engineer. “Not much upstairs, huh?” 

He turned back to the Beloved. “Don’t worry; it’s simple.” His teeth gleamed in a smile. “Just a traitor to neutralize, and a Prime Minister to manipulate.”

He always knew his faith would one day be rewarded.


	2. The Earth Enthusiasts Web

If one happened to wonder where an angel, a demon, and a few cracked humans might meet in secret to discuss the continued protection of Earth from supernatural interferences, one might be surprised to learn that Madame Tussauds wax museum off Baker Street was as good a spot as any, and a great deal better than most.

On this count, Aziraphale was, admittedly, a bit skeptical, but Crowley had insisted. When Aziraphale asked why, the demon replied, simply: “Camouflage.” Aziraphale knew this didn’t make any sense, even though it felt like it did. Privately, he suspected Crowley knew it was the only way he’d get Aziraphale to step foot in the place.

They alerted the humans to meet them in a secluded corner of the Hall of Civil Service, which Crowley assured him was the least interesting exhibit. Despite his airs, Aziraphale found himself looking around as they strolled through the Hall of Culture. They slowed, pointing out statues of historical figures they’d guided or tempted, or— on one memorable occasion— performed karaoke with.

“Florence Nightingale,” Aziraphale cooed, eyes crinkling with a smile. “Oh, she was a dear, wasn’t she?”

Crowley flicked an uninterested glance at the bonnetted sculpture. “Not really my speed,” he said. “Wrapping pustulant boils all day, and don’t get me started on the amputations. Always thought she was touched in the head.”

“Someone has to help the sick, Crowley,” Aziraphale protested. 

“I never get sick. Not even once,” Crowley said. “Seems a bit icky. Charles Darwin!” He darted in front of the next statue. “Now, that was a good prank. I’m not usually a fan of the Almighty’s sense of humor, but I’ve got to hand it to Her on this one. Leaving behind all those clues to a comprehensive theory of evolution so the humans think they come from little swimming amoebas millions and millions of years ago, when all it really took was seven days?” He laughed and caught Aziraphale’s eye.

Aziraphale grimaced back at him.

“And we can’t forget Einstein.” Crowley moved on to the statue beside Darwin. His sunglasses glinted. “Heaven, was he smart— you know, for a human. Strange, really, how smart he was. Unnatural-like. All those jokes about slipping between the space-time continuum…”

“You just don’t like that he was smarter than you,” Aziraphale said.

“Smarter than me?” Crowley scoffed. “I am supernatural being far older than this world. I built galaxies, angel. I could show you things you’ve never dreamed of.”

Aziraphale bounced on his toes. “Alright,” he said. “Show me the Einstein field equation for general relativity.”

Crowley paused. The corners of his mouth tipped downward. “What’s that? Oh, right, general relativity, yeah—” He rubbed his chin. “The thing is, and this is true: nobody actually understands the Einstein field equations.” He leaned in as though confiding a secret. “It was back in the tens— the nineteen-tens, you remember— I was doing some sorting for Satan— files, documents, that sort of thing, he’s a disaster when it comes to office organization— and I found these old blueprints just stuffed away, completely forgotten. It was the blueprints to the universe, angel! Of course, I didn’t understand ninety percent of it, total gibberish, but I thought it’d be a neat joke to give it to Albert here.” He smirked.

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, suspicious.

“Why?” Crowley repeated, like it was obvious. “Because math’s a right pain in the arse. It’s the explanation for the whole universe, and the humans need it for practically everything, and it’s just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, really.”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkled. Uncertainty flickered across his features. “I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, you don’t believe me?” Crowley sputtered, with rather more passion than Aziraphale expected. His suspicion that Crowley was pulling his leg intensified. “What’s more likely: that I, a supernatural entity of great power and imagination, do not understand math, or that the Almighty left Her design plans for the creation of the universe in the back of Hell’s filing cabinet, hm?” He looked at Aziraphale over the tops of his sunglasses, then turned on his heel and strutted away.

Aziraphale blinked. He repeated Crowley’s words back to himself in his head.

“I think it’s far more likely that you don’t understand math, of course,” he said. “Crowley, it’s obvious you don’t—” He raised his voice. “Where are you going? Crowley, why are you still walking away? You didn’t win that one!” He hurried after his friend.

The humans were already gathered in the corner with all the most unpopular Prime Ministers when they arrived at the Hall of Civil Service. Crowley’s recruits slouched against the wall, arms crossed. The nuns posed, taking selfies with the statues.

“Hello!” Aziraphale called, joy bubbling in his chest to see them all together again, their conscripts in the struggle for Earth’s independence.

“Right, then. Human, human, human,” Crowley ticked them off. “Human, human, and... ah, human,” he said, finding Sergeant Shadwell eye-to-eye with a nineteenth-century Commander General. “Angel,” he pointed at Aziraphale, “and demon,” he referenced himself. “All accounted for. Let’s talk business.”

“Really, they have names,” Aziraphale tutted under his breath.

“Oh, sorry, of course,” Crowley said. “How rude of me. Dawkins, Boggs, witch-hunter,” he ticked them off again. “Short nun, tall nun, fortune-teller.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and addressed the others.

“We’ve called you in today to discuss some recent odd behavior from the Minister of Weather Diversity,” he said. “We’re not sure, but he may be another victim of demonic possession.”

“Isn’t that post a joke?” Boggs asked. “They couldn’t even agree on a Minister of Climate Change; they had to go with ‘Weather Diversity,’ whatever that means. The Earth’s still a mess, and my generation will be stuck with the clean-up.”

“I know it’s frustrating, my dear, but we musn’t give up hope,” Aziraphale said. “It might be slow going, but change does come in the end, you can trust me on that.”

“We haven’t time for slow going,” Boggs protested. “We’re already thirty years too late.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say. He’d passed six thousand turns round the sun on this vibrant little planet, and had trouble envisioning any challenge that, given time and patience, the human race could not overcome.

He continued. “The Minister of Weather Diversity has not been revolutionary, it’s true; but he has enacted moderate restrictions outside the Party line. He’s also organized an international summit on climate change scheduled to be held at the Palace of Westminster next week.”

“What good is an international summit about something half the world doesn’t even think is a problem?” Sister Precocious piped up. Her question was irritatingly rhetorical.

“Bringing interested parties together is a vital first step,” Aziraphale said. “And if the Prime Minister takes a strong stance, the international community might follow.”

Boggs scoffed. “It’s an election year,” she said. “She’ll never risk going against the Party.”

Aziraphale twisted his hands. He didn’t like talking politics, usually because world leaders throughout time got all mixed up in his head, but also because it was one of those topics that no one could get completely right or completely wrong, even though most people believed the opposite.

He took a breath and went on, a bit awkwardly. “The summit is next week, and the Minister of Weather Diversity has been acting strangely. Just a few days ago, he stood up at a press conference and called the scientific reports a fraud. Said it was all a big set-up, but wouldn’t explain what he meant. He’s been pulling back restrictions ever since.”

“Maybe he’s been blackmailed,” Boggs suggested.

“Maybe he’s a politician,” Dawkins grunted.

“Or maybe he’s possessed by a demon!” Aziraphale’s frustration colored his voice. “If he is, we can send the malignant spirit away, and the Minister will go back to doing the right thing— just in time for the summit.”

“Did you notice any signs when he spoke at that press conference?” Precocious asked. “Rotten flesh, maybe, or flies swarming around his head?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. “But this demon might be more sophisticated than the others.” Boggs and Dawkins exchanged a glance. Aziraphale bristled. “I think it’s worth investigating, in any case.” He sniffed, peeved to feel his cheeks burning.

“Of course it is.” Crowley stepped up beside him. He leveled the humans a threatening look. “And this lot’s done complaining about it, unless they want worms in their porridge tomorrow morning.”

Dawkins shook his head.

“Sorry, boss,” Boggs muttered.

“Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of typing some notes for everyone to go over…”

His mood lightened considerably as he passed out the papers. He’d been looking forward to this surprise.

Precocious glanced down at the memo, then back up at him. Her eyes flicked from Aziraphale to Crowley, suspicious.

“What’s this?” Crowley murmured, brow furrowed. He peered down at his own piece of paper.

“I made stationary!” Aziraphale beamed. “It makes us seem much more official, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but—” Precocious stuttered, shooting Crowley a wary look. “The name—”

“The Earth Enthusiasts Web.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered. He smiled. “Doesn’t that have a lovely ring to it?”

“You mean, EEW?” Boggs said. She turned the stationary over and pointed at the acronym scrawled in highly decorated cursive across the top of the page.

Aziraphale’s smile drained away. He looked down at his own piece of paper. “Well, that’s— I didn’t—” He sighed. “Oh, dear.”

“What’s the matter?” Crowley asked. “I like it. EEW. Fine name.”

“Crowley, we can’t keep it—” Aziraphale started.

“‘Course we can,” Crowley said. He glowered at the humans again, daring them to argue. No one did.

Crowley explained the plan for the following day. Instead of another home visit, they would drop in on the Minister at work. Aziraphale had called his secretary and scheduled an appointment, even though the Minister’s calendar was booked solid for the next six months. The secretary wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it.

The humans— the EEWies, maybe, Aziraphale thought— hung to Crowley’s every word, enthralled. He paced before them, pointing to each in turn. They straightened under his attention, accepting his authority without question.

He was good at being a leader, Aziraphale realised. He was surprised, and then abruptly felt disloyal for being surprised. Only, Crowley had never bothered with authority before. Certainly, he hadn’t been interested in moving up the ranks of Hell. Middle management _was_ hell, Aziraphale remembered him saying, and there was no point going to hell when you were already there.

The humans were different with Crowley than they were with Aziraphale. He supposed that was to be expected; Crowley was a demon, after all, and he could spit and snarl when he wanted to. Aziraphale didn’t necessarily want to be the leader, but he was an angel, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do— guide the humans, lead them to greener pastures?

If Crowley was the leader, what did that make him?

Aziraphale watched with dawning horror as Crowley and Boggs shared a complicated handshake, and it wasn’t because the whole routine was frightfully dorky. It was because— But these feelings were beneath him! How could he be such a bad friend? He berated himself, but couldn’t shake the truth. He was jealous, wasn’t he? Jealous of Crowley, his oldest friend, who always came through for him.

Shame suffused him, hot and jagged. His stomach curled like a piece of ash. He needed a moment to breathe. He stumbled sideways into Neville Chamberlain and yelped when the statue began to tip. He caught it in a bear hug, set it to rights, and wound his way through the other Prime Ministers.

“Aziraphale, you alright?” Crowley called as he hurried from the Hall.

“Duck-sally!” Aziraphale assured him over his shoulder, turned a corner, and scurried away.

* * *

Prime Minister Susan Bones sat at her desk and watched the video streaming on her laptop in consternation. Her Minister of Weather Diversity was holding an impromptu press interview on the streets of London.

“We have been lied to,” Randall spoke into the microphone. His face was sweaty. Dark curls were plastered to his forehead. “Our enemies want us to be afraid. That’s why they’ve propped up this hoax in the scientific community! But we won’t be lied to any longer. It’s time we look our oppressors in the eye and say: No more!”

“What are you talking about?” the Prime Minister exclaimed, gaping at her computer screen.

“Ask yourself this,” Randall continued, “ask yourself: What about the jellyfish? Hm?” He lifted his eyebrows pointedly at the camera. “Why does no one ever talk about the jellyfish?” he demanded.

Susan spluttered. “What the fu-”

“And the chimpanzees out in Africa!” He threw his arms out to both sides. “They’re all over the world, but do you think the other Party is going to spare a minute to talk about them?”

Susan slammed her laptop shut. She had seen more than enough.

So, Randall was going to play the complete-and-total-lunatic card, was he?

She groaned. She knew as well as anyone how effective a strategy that was.

She didn’t understand this one-eighty. They’d been on the same page since the day she took office. The planet was in a pretty tough spot, they agreed, and the government might as well try to clean it up a bit. Randall had accepted the post with good enough intentions, she thought, though he’d never been one to stick his neck out. That was fine. Susan wasn’t much of a martyr, herself.

Her eyes strayed to a silver-framed photograph propped on the corner of her gleaming wood desk. She picked it up and breathed through her nose, a calming technique she employed frequently.

Her nine-year-old namesake beamed up at her, sunlight catching on the little girl’s golden hair. The morning after Susan celebrated her thirty-sixth birthday with no engagement ring in sight, she’d made an appointment at a fertility clinic. It was just as well. She didn’t imagine she’d enjoy co-parenting.

It was for Susie she’d pressed Randall to organize the summit in the first place. Susan had grand plans for her daughter. They would be the first mother-daughter pair in history to rule the U.K.— as humble elected servants, of course. But Susie couldn’t very well carry on her legacy if all the ozone floated away, or whatever it was the scientists assured them would bring society to a grinding halt.

A knock sounded on the door. Susan set the photograph down and stood, straightening her jacket.

“Come in,” she called. She’d perfected the art of granting entrance to her office as though it were a great favor.

Right Honorable Gibson strode through the door, followed closely by Right Honorable Popplewell. A stranger hovered at the threshold.

So the Party had dropped in for a visit. 

“Friends,” Susan greeted them through gritted teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s this Randall business,” Gibson said. She turned and flicked a hand at the stranger. “Well, come on, then. We’ve brought you to the Prime Minister. What are you waiting for?”

The man stood in the doorway, hands flat before him like he pressed against an invisible barrier. He turned dull eyes on Susan.

“She has to invite me in,” he said. His voice grated down Susan’s spine.

“I just did,” she said, losing her patience. “Gibson, what is going on? Why is Randall-”

“No,” the stranger said. “You have to be— more specific.”

Susan rolled her eyes. The more time she spent around men her age, the further she retreated from the dating pool.

“What’s your name?” she snapped.

The man looked at her. She had the strangest feeling that he was the type of person to have sludge dripping from his ears, but she couldn’t begin to explain why that might be.

“Adnachiel,” he said.

Susan’s eyebrows lifted. Odd name. Irish, maybe?

“Adnachiel, please come in and tell me what the hell is going on,” she said.

The man pulled himself to his full height and stepped through the threshold. He paused, satisfied, when he reached the other side. He trudged up to her desk and stopped, holding himself as though his bones didn’t quite fit inside his body. 

“I represent Energy United, the United Kingdom’s number one provider of clean, affordable energy,” he said. “I’m here today to tell you why you’re going to sabotage next week’s summit.”

Susan bristled. She picked up her nearest paperweight and pointed it at him.

“I think you’re here to shove this snowglobe up your-”

“We’re backing Randall’s play, Susan,” Gibson said. “And we want you to get in line, too.”

The paperweight landed back on her desk with a _thunk_.

“You can’t be serious.” Susan looked between the MPs. “We already settled this. I gave you the trout, didn’t I? You let me have this summit, that was the deal.”

“Things change,” Gibson said.

Susan opened her mouth.

“It’s an election year,” Popplewell said, apropos of nothing.

Susan closed her mouth.

Adnachiel smiled.

“Cancel it, then.” She waved a hand, like it made no difference to her. She looked away from Susie’s picture, jaw tightening.

“Oh, no, we don’t want to do that,” Gibson said. “It’s important to remind the world every once in awhile that we are the center of the universe, after all.”

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you want?”

Adnachiel’s smile grew wider. 

“I’m so glad you asked,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acronym jokes are the highest form of comedy.


	3. The Web of Protection Spell Thing

Later that night, Crowley miracled his way through the gate in front of the Palace of Westminster just as Big Ben struck one. He drove the Bentley up to the clock tower and parked on the curb twenty meters away. He exited, tapped the trunk window and stalked across the parking lot.

The night was dark with only a lazy crescent moon reclining in the sky. A warm evening wind swept a fast food wrapper across the pavement. On the north side of the tower, the humans lurked in the shadows.

Crowley stopped in front of them and placed his hands on his hips. He’d recently incorporated into his wardrobe a long double-breasted black peacoat with silver studs of coiled snakes on each side— unbuttoned, of course; it was summer, after all, and the coat was really more for effect than practicality. Upon first slipping it over his shoulders and beholding his reflection, he’d recognized immediately why Aziraphale was so fond of his own long-standing duster. The coat’s length was mathematically designed to heighten one’s impressiveness when striking effective poses.

The three humans pushed away from the tower and gathered closer. Their eyes were alert, the tension on their faces one step below outright eagerness. Crowley looked at them with approval, safely hidden behind his sunglasses. 

“You bring the stuff?”

Boggs pulled her bag from her shoulders and unzipped it. She quickly retrieved a candle, a rock, and a feather, then held the items up for his inspection.

“Right,” Crowley said, “well, you know why we’re here—”

“No, we don’t,” Shadwell said. “All you sent us was this text message.” He held up his phone, displaying Crowley’s latest emoji-littered communication: 

_ Meet at [clock] at 1, bring [candle][rock][feather]. Need to [spiderweb][castle] from [poop][devil] so [halo emoji] [glasses emoji][pinocchio emoji]. I’ll bring the [hammer][dog][puke emoji]. _

“Yes, well, it’s all there,” Crowley said. “I hope you don’t need me to spell it out for you.”

They stared at him, shifting on their feet.

Crowley sighed. “We’re going to cast a protection spell over the Hall of Parliament, of course,” he said. “So Aziraphale can investigate the politician tomorrow without Hell sending in a score of demons for backup.”

Dawkins and Boggs seemed to relax. Shadwell appeared as interested in the proceedings as ever, which was to say not very.

“We’ll have to split up,” Crowley said. “Each of us in a cardinal direction. Shadwell, you’ll stay here with the rock, Boggs will go south with the candle, and Dawkins will take the feather to the western gate. We’ll perform a quick ritual, call upon the power of the elements, yada yada, convert the energy of the infinite cosmos into a shield of protection over the Palace of Westminster, and call it a night.”

Dawkins’ eyes narrowed. “What kind of ritual?”

“Oh, you know.” Crowley rocked on his feet. “Sprinkle a little witch hazel around, invoke the element of your talisman, offer up the blood of an innocent—”

“Excuse me?” Boggs interrupted.

Crowley pressed his lips together. “Relax,” he coaxed. “You humans are so touchy. It’s not like I’m asking you to murder babies.”

“What are you asking?” Dawkins said.

Crowley jerked his head, then turned and stalked back across the parking lot to the Bentley. His peacoat swirled about his legs like a second shadow. He heard the humans hurrying along behind him.

The Bentley’s trunk creaked when he pulled it open. An interior light blared, exposing the repugnant little beasts within.

“See?” He gestured inside the trunk. “It’s like killing rats. We’ll be doing everyone a favor, believe me.”

“Puppies?” Boggs said in disbelief. One of the gremlins stood up against the hatch and sniffed odiously at the outside air. “You want us to murder puppies?”

Crowley deflated a bit at her incredulous tone. “What’s the matter?” he asked, defensive. “They’re just a bunch of squirmy little fur bags.” A spotted short-hair with floppy ears and a rounded belly toddled his way up to the hatch and bumped his snout against Crowley’s hand. Crowley glared down at him. “Disgusting.”

“They’re adorable!” Boggs protested. She gathered a month-old golden labrador up in her arms. The dog nudged their faces together for a series of curious licks.

Crowley watched in revulsion.

“Demons don’t like puppies,” he said. “They make us all nibbly-wibbly. They’re just… too cute.” He grimaced. “I think I’m gonna be sick—”

“Come off it,” Boggs said, cradling her puppy closer. “Like you don’t appreciate cute things.”

Crowley didn’t appreciate the teasing implication in her voice, but he also knew better than to acknowledge it. So, he simply lifted an eyebrow and said, “Puppies are an abomination created by Hell, little human. Believe me; I was there. They lure you in with those big eyes and cuddly faces, and by the time they’ve ruined your first sofa you’re already helplessly pack-bonded. It’s diabolical, really. Puppies have wrought more devastation to human property than any other four-legged creature, and yet the humans keep encouraging them to make more.”

“Hell created puppies?” Dawkins asked. “But I thought demons don’t like them.”

“Yes, well.” Crowley shrugged. “Aziraphale’s always said evil contains within it the seeds of its own destruction, the bastard.” He shook his head, lips curving just the tiniest bit upward. He refocused on the humans. “So, are we going to murder these puppies and spill their blood, or not?”

“No!” Boggs said. Dawkins shook his head, and Shadwell shrugged and scrunched his nose as if to say, ‘Better not, laddy.’

“But the protection spell won’t be as strong without it!” Crowley just barely managed to keep himself from stamping his foot.

“There has to be something else,” Boggs said.

“Oh, right,” Crowley snapped. “Just some other bodily fluid spilt upon the Earth from the constitution of an innocent creature.”

Boggs looked at Dawkins. Dawkins glanced at Shadwell. Shadwell eyed the puppies, and then they all turned to Crowley.

“What?” he demanded.

“Couldn’t they just, ah—” Shadwell said, attempting to be delicate— “drain the lizard?”

Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed together like a highly alarmed caterpillar.

“What?” he said again, aghast.

“Come on, Crowley!” Boggs grew impatient. “Couldn’t they just take a piss, or something?”

“Oh.” Crowley considered that. “I suppose so. Hadn’t really ever thought of that. Demons don’t have to, you know—” He gestured.

“Wet the lettuce?” Shadwell said.

Crowley banished that comment from existence.

“I don’t know,” he waffled. “Blood’s more potent, and the angel—”

“Does Aziraphale know you want to murder puppies for his protection?” Boggs asked.

Crowley glared at her. Little wretch said she was loyal, the deceiver.

“Fine,” he snapped. “The puppies will go number one.” He snatched up the round spotted mutt and eyed him threateningly. “Satan help you if you do it on my coat.”

He explained the steps of the ritual. Their talismans corresponded with the four elements: the rock for Earth, the feather for Air, the candle for Fire. Crowley hadn’t brought a talisman for Water, since the Palace’s eastern face abutted the River Thames. He would miracle his way inside the building, he told the others, and find his way to the private dining patio sprawled on the riverbank, reserved just for members of Parliament.

Once they arrived at their corresponding cardinal locations, they would place their talismans at their feet and call upon the power of the elements. Crowley would harness the energy they drew up, molding it into a protective shield over the iconic government building. Then they would seal the web specifically against the powers of Hell by— Crowley’s voice grew pained— directing the puppies to urinate on it.

“Everybody peachy?” he asked. “Right, set your phones to chime in ten minutes, and don’t be late—” He suddenly decided he needed to kick the intimidation up a notch, and hissed— “Or I will be very put-out.”

Crowley hitched the dog under his arm and stalked away into the darkness. He strolled along a lawn dotted with catalpa trees in front of the Palace, snakeskin boots sinking into the damp ground. The puppy hung from his elbow, limp and content.

A bright yellow canopy heralded a fast food joint at one side of the main entrance. Its cartoon logo depicted a round sort of human with no arms or legs, but a huge smile on his face and a windmill hat sticking straight up on his head.  _ Chubb Bub’s House of Grub _ , the sign above the canopy proudly proclaimed.

“Well, that’s unsettling,” Crowley said. He turned away and snapped the doors open.

His boots clicked down the linoleum floor as he swept past the gift shop and around closed doors with plaques beside them announcing rooms like ‘House of Commons,’ ‘House of Lords,’ and ‘House of Afternoon Tea,’ the only room in the whole place with the slightest feeling of agreeableness.

Crowley slowed when he arrived outside the private dining hall, where another yellow canopy caught his eye. He hadn’t expected the government to have such a proclivity for fast food. He glanced again at Chubb Bub’s cartoon logo and paused, recognition flickering in the back of his head. He stared, trying to place why it looked familiar, until the little fur monster wriggled and yelped against his arm, letting him know it was time to get a move on.

Crowley dashed outside to the far end of the patio, where the river rushed and swelled beneath his feet. He pulled himself up to stand on the ledge and held the puppy out over the water just as his phone began to chime.

“Spirits of Water, I call on you,” he said. “Waves and waterfalls, trickles and streams, I call on you. Rise up, spirit of the mighty Thames, and protect this Hall from infernal forces with ill-will for humanity.”

He closed his eyes and spread his awareness across the Palace. Boggs chanted over a lit candle to the south, while Dawkins stood outside the western gate, one foot on his feather to keep it from floating away. Shadwell remained beneath the clock tower, dangling his puppy over a rock. It was enough, somehow, and Crowley weaved the mounting energies of the elements into a fine spider web of protection over the Palace. The shield was dazzling, if one were possessed of the necessary faculties to see it; incandescent and delightfully seventh-dimensional.

When he was finished, he opened his eyes and lifted an eyebrow at the dog.

“I’ve done my part,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”

He looked away, genuinely insulted when the puppy relieved himself into the river, sealing the web against the powers of Hell.

“Right.” He dismounted the railing and set the dog down on the patio. “That was anticlimactic.”

A sound from the dining room, like a chair scraped across the tile, alerted him that they were not alone.

He darted across the patio and back inside the Hall. The dining room was dark and quiet, shadows overlapping on the floor. Crowley crept along one wall and out into the hallway. He sniffed. A familiar burnt-toast odor wafted in his nostrils.

He turned a corner and froze. Further down the corridor, a stocky figure stood upon a chair, studying a large directory sign mounted on the wall. The stranger was so short that even standing upon the chair, he had to crane his neck back to take in the height of it. He took no notice of Crowley, lifted a hand—

—and squawked when Crowley tackled him to the floor. They grappled briefly, knees and elbows flailing, until Crowley pinned his arms behind his back. He dragged the stranger to his feet.

“Demon!” he grunted. “What are you doing here?”

The demon twisted in Crowley’s grip and gaped up at him. He had watery eyes, a little pig nose, and brilliant white sneakers that scrabbled upon the linoleum floor.

“Not fast enough.” Crowley lifted him bodily by the collar of his track suit and dragged him down the hallway. Why hadn’t his protective spell driven this demon away? Had he forgotten a step? “I don’t know what Hell is planning, but I think it’s high time the lot of you leave us alone and bugger off.”

“Wait!” the demon gasped. “You’re— you’re Crowley, aren’t you?”

“That depends,” Crowley said, not pausing his stride for the exit.

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll be calling me by my name, or by ‘Oh God please no not the ankle, I never knew a bone screw in the ankle would be so painful.’”

“I don’t work for Hell either!” the demon exclaimed. Crowley stopped. The demon stumbled against him, and widened his eyes as earnestly as a demon’s eyes could.

“My apologies for not rolling out the welcome mat,” Crowley said. “Should I make you a badge?”

“Uh— sure.” The demon’s eyes flicked around the hallway uncertainly.

“What’s your name?” Crowley asked.

“Gerd,” the demon said.

“Well, Gerd—” Crowley tightened his grip on Gerd’s ghastly velour track suit and shoved him further down the Hall— “I don’t believe you. I think Hell is up to something with the humans, but what I can’t figure out is why you’re doing it in my backyard. London is my territory, and Hell should know better than to interfere with my territory.” His voice descended into a hiss.

“I swear!” Gerd gasped. “I only took this job to get to Earth. It seemed quite chill; they just wanted me to check on Chubb Bub’s—” Crowley pulled them to another abrupt halt— “but I’m never going back there. I’m sick of it: the torturing, the tempting, the whole snake sprint—”

“Shut up,” Crowley snarled. “Why did Hell send you to check on that fast food place?”

“I don’t know. I don’t!” Gerd exclaimed when Crowley’s face darkened. “They just wanted me to make sure everything was still there. Apparently there’s been an issue with human pubescents spraying rude graffiti all over the signs.”

Crowley snorted. Yes, evil always planted the seed of its own destruction—

Not now, Aziraphale, he said to himself.

“Are you saying you accepted this mission from Hell for a one-way ticket to Earth so you could run off from your responsibilities for a few kicks with the humans?” Crowley asked.

Gerd nodded.

“So why are you still hanging around here?” Crowley said.

Gerd shrugged. “Haven’t really figured out my strategy yet.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “And what were you doing by that sign back there? You know, on the chair—”

“Oh, just some mischief,” Gerd said. He looked a touch embarrassed.

“Really?” Crowley’s interest was piqued. “What kind of mischief?”

Gerd leaned forward, watery eyes brightening. “It was the directory sign,” he explained. “I was going to switch the numbers around, get the rooms all mixed up…” He smiled, revealing two rows of pointed teeth, faltering a moment later under Crowley’s scrutiny.

“That is juvenile and obnoxious,” he said, trying not to sound too impressed. “Could do with a bit more imagination, but you just might have something there.”

The demon blinked. “You think so?” he asked, likewise trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Mm.” Crowley considered him. He wasn’t sure Aziraphale would like this, but lately Crowley had been trusting his own sense of right and wrong. Aziraphale had faith in him, Crowley reminded himself, and that wouldn’t go away even if he wasn’t thrilled with all his choices.

“Come on.” He released his grip on Gerd’s wrists, but continued to nudge him forward down the hallway. “There’s another directory sign in the front foyer.”

The demon’s face relaxed, until a puppy pounced from the shadows and nipped about his heels. Gerd shrieked, jumping backward.

“Yes, well,” Crowley said. “I’m afraid that’s part of life on Earth. You’ve got to take your puppies with your Pont du Rhône.”

* * *

It had taken Aziraphale the better part of the afternoon to calm down.

He’d hurried straight from the wax museum to a patisserie on St. Anne’s Court, where glass-walled ovens lined the walls so patrons could sit and watch the bread baking.

It was one of Aziraphale’s secret pastimes. He found it soothing to sit in the bakery with a cup of tea before daybreak, watching the bread rise. The baker was not a stingy man. Of a morning, one could expect to watch the rise and set of dozens of different kinds of pastries, loaves, and crescents— and don’t get him started on the brioche.

The baker was an early-riser, so there wasn’t much in the ovens when Aziraphale toddled through the doors midday. However, the baker had taken one look at Aziraphale’s face, and, recognizing his long and enthusiastic patronage, began mixing the batter for a quick buttercream-raspberry genoise cake. It would keep for the wedding that weekend, he reasoned.

Aziraphale sat and watched the cake rise as he sipped a cup of tea and steadied his nerves.

He wasn’t jealous of Crowley, Aziraphale decided. How could he be? It had always struck him as a middling-to-egregious tragedy that so few truly engaged with Crowley’s brilliance. He was too bright, Aziraphale had concluded. Their peers saw his flash and thought that was all there was to him, turning away when they should have shielded their eyes and braved closer.

Now that Crowley was surrounded by others who admired his qualities and respected his choices, how could Aziraphale be jealous? He couldn’t— he was truly, beatifically happy for his friend.

Aziraphale sighed and left the baker a sizable tip, waving as he exited the establishment. The cake had already reached its peak, anyway.

It wasn’t until he was back in his bookshop that night, snug behind his desk with a mug of cocoa, that he was able to put to words what was bothering him.

Crowley was settling into this new life like he was born for it, like it was what he was always meant to do. He had a purpose now, quite apart from his past spats of demonic mayhem. The humans might even call it a destiny.

But Aziraphale was an angel. He hadn’t Fallen. He’d waited on tenterhooks for days, weeks, months after the would-be apocalypse— but judgment never came. The Almighty wasn’t through with him yet. He still had a divine purpose to fulfill.

“But what might that be?” he asked aloud of himself. He wished again that the Plan didn’t have to be quite so Ineffable. He wanted to do what was right.

“You’re an angel,” he said. “Your job is to see the best in people, and to protect it.”

He rang Crowley’s mobile, but the dial tone gave way to his voicemail, which cautioned against leaving a message as he’d no intention of checking them. Aziraphale glanced at the clock and hung up. Crowley must still be out with the humans.

Aziraphale watched the crescent moon and allowed certainty to fill him like a light bulb.

The Minister of Weather Diversity would do the right thing, he decided. Tomorrow, they would smite the demon controlling him, and Aziraphale would nudge the human gently in the right direction.

It was his purpose, after all.


	4. The Minister of Weather Diversity

The Bentley weaved through Westminster’s mid-afternoon traffic. Crowley switched carelessly between gears, knee bouncing in anticipation. He glanced to the side. Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat, muttering to himself with his eyes closed. A Queen track pounded through the floorboards.

Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this?  
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?  
Out of the doorway the bullets rip  
To the sound of the beat

The bass thrummed three times more, before Aziraphale leaned forward and switched it off.

Crowley gestured at the dash. “That must be the absolute worst point of the song to turn it off at.” He grew agitated. “It’s giving me a headache—”

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale lifted a hand when Crowley leaned over to turn the music back on. “I am trying to concentrate.”

“What do you need to concentrate for?” Crowley demanded. “Isn’t this a bit rinse-and-repeat for you by now?”

Aziraphale withered him with a glance.

“I happen to take my part in all this seriously,” he huffed. “I’m more than just a demon-smiter, you know!”

“Oh, well, yes, of course,” Crowley said. “You’re also…” He waved a hand and trailed off encouragingly.

Aziraphale waited for a second, then exclaimed, “An angel!”

“Right, right.” Crowley clucked. “It was on the tip of my tongue, honest.”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale turned to the window. Crowley saw the crease of his brow in the passenger rear view mirror. He straightened against his leather seat.

“Angel,” he said pointedly, and waited until Aziraphale turned from the window. He caught his eye and crooked an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley threw him a look, unimpressed. “What about after the demon is exorcised?” he burst out. “I rather think I should counsel this Minister of Weather Diversity.”

Crowley couldn’t help it: he groaned. “Interfering with a politician? Didn’t we learn our lesson after Napoleon?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “How did you find out about that?”

He smirked. “I have my ways.”

Aziraphale side-eyed him. “The point is,” he said, then paused to collect his thoughts. “I’m an angel, Crowley.” He settled forward in his seat. “I mean, I— I’m _still_ an angel.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say, so he tipped his head in agreement.

Aziraphale laughed awkwardly. “I thought— I rather expected, after everything— But there never was another word. I’ve been cast out without being cast out.”

“You sound disappointed,” Crowley noted aloud.

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “Not disappointed. Just... confused.” He sighed and turned back to the window. The tape player kicked on briefly, a few notes of “Made in Heaven” sounding through the vehicle’s interior before Aziraphale reached out and jabbed it off.

Crowley pulled through the same gate he’d entered the night before. He drove straight up to the House of Parliament and parked on the curb, daring anyone to make an issue of it. Aziraphale turned the guards’ attention away, and they slipped through the security checkpoint at the main entrance without notice.

Crowley caught sight of Boggs and the nuns waiting in line for a public tour. Dawkins stood beside the main entrance in a full suit and chauffeur's hat, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Shadwell and the fortune-teller were absent, he noted with approval. After his run-in with Gerd the tracksuit-wearing demon, Crowley had directed them to keep an eye on the mysterious Chub Bubb’s House of Grub instead.

Crowley raised a brow at the angel then led the way through the Hall. Aziraphale kept pace, quiet.

They were early for their appointment, so Crowley slowed and expanded his senses. It was difficult to guess at how much of a demonic presence might have been there before he’d raised the protective shield, but there certainly wasn’t any there now, excepting his own. He relaxed and followed the pull of energies down a hallway, around a corner, and down another. 

He was used to encountering a variety of human emotions and familiar with the clamor when several of them were packed together in close quarters, but the energetic noise within the Hall of Parliament was several dimensions above that. It was like an opera, if half the audience decided it would be fun to run onto the stage and yell louder than the person next to them, while the other half of the audience threw tomatoes and booed.

Crowley came across a carpeted stair at the back of a small alcove. He took it up and up again, two flights, until they ascended a deserted landing with a set of double doors set in the opposite wall. He glanced at Aziraphale, and the angel’s alert expression let him know that he, too, felt the screaming energies beyond. He nodded at Crowley, and together they pushed through the doors into the eye of the storm, the boiling center of the bouillabaisse.

They emerged upon a balcony overlooking the House of Commons. Parliament was in session, and a middle-aged woman with honey-colored hair and a presence to rival the archangel Gabriel was holding court from the lectern. Crowley recognized her as the humans’ current Prime Minister. He beckoned the angel forward, and they settled against the railing to watch her address the MPs.

“The international community is joining us in just a few days,” the Prime Minister was saying. She looked around the Chamber with an odd combination of pride and exasperation. “I needn’t remind you that our Summit on Weather Diversity positions us at the center of the world stage—”

“Cancel it!” a voice squawked. The Prime Minister faltered, her mouth flattening in a straight line. 

A man with dark curls coiled tightly against his scalp stormed down between the MPs. He stopped at the middle of the floor and pointed at her. Crowley didn’t bother keeping up with politics, but even he recognized that the man came from the Government’s side of the Chamber: the PM’s own Party.

“Weather diversity is a hoax!” the man yelled. The MPs buzzed, and the energy in the room grew loud and bombastic.

“Minister Randall,” the PM said coldly. “Sit down before I have the Serjeant-at-Arms escort you out.”

“You want to censor me, but I break your mantle of oppression!” Randall cried. “There are real interests at stake here.”

“Sit down,” someone called. Booing broke out, mostly from the opposite Party, reverberating around the Chamber’s four corners.

“Corporate interests?” A young woman seated at the front of the Opposition leaned forward. “Or your own?”

The Minister spared her half a glance before turning to his own Party. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and glassy, but despite his frenzied appearance, Crowley sensed no real investment in him. “Corporate entities in the sector have been villainized!” His voice shook, reedy. “Energy United, for example—”

“Both, then,” the young woman said snidely behind him. Her Party tittered. A foppish looking gentleman stood up a few rows behind her.

“Your Minister is a buffoon, Bones,” he said. “Will you consign the nation to certain collapse by allowing him to undermine the experts?”

“Experts! Bah,” Randall spluttered. “Experts don’t know everything.” Crowley begrudged to admit he was impressed. Somehow, the human had managed to derail the conversation completely while being almost entirely incoherent.

The Prime Minister clutched at her lectern. She looked as though she were debating all the ways she wanted to murder the man in front of her. Her eyes flickered to the member sitting at her right elbow, an older gentleman wearing a curled white wig. ‘Right Honorable Popplewell,’ the placard in front of him announced. He tilted his head, curls brushing his shoulders.

“—as such, I ask each of you to represent our great country with pride and grace.” The PM turned front again, continuing as though there’d been no interruption. “Remember: the world will be watching.” She stepped away from the lectern, before returning to add softly, “Our children, too.”

She strode away through a door in the back, while a babble broke out among the MPs. Popplewell struck his gavel and called forth the next item on the docket. Minister Randall melted away, disappearing up the stairs and out of view from the balcony.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. His friend’s brow was furrowed. Dismay billowed from him like smoke.

“Irritating,” Crowley said. “But not a demon.”

Aziraphale leaned against the railing, staring down at the humans.

“Let’s go home,” Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale turned, surprised. “We haven’t even met the man,” he protested. “Maybe he’s not possessed, but he might be under a demonic thrall. We should take our appointment.”

“Very well,” Crowley said. He wasn’t sure why he’d suggested leaving in the first place, except the angel’s face had been so downcast that he’d been briefly overcome by the urge to settle him back at the bookshop in his armchair with an aged bottle of cabernet beside him. He paced to the door and gestured Aziraphale through.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Fell,” the Minister’s secretary greeted him when they arrived outside his office suite. He looked from Aziraphale to his computer screen and back, then clicked the mouse a few times for good measure. “You have an appointment.” His voice betrayed his astonishment.

“Quite right.” Aziraphale bounced on his toes. “I’ve brought my associate, Mr. Anthony J—” He stopped abruptly, eyes darting to Crowley. “—Birdley,” he finished, shrugging helplessly when Crowley shot him a mystified look.

“I didn’t want to leave your real name behind,” he whispered when the secretary led them back to the Minister’s office. “Especially since we know demonic work is at play here. I had to think fast.”

“Is that what you did?” Crowley asked, and smirked at Aziraphale’s answering glare.

The secretary knocked upon a gleaming hardwood door and pushed it open. “Your next appointment, Minister,” he announced from the doorway. “Mr. Fell and Mr. Birdley. They’re here to discuss…” He trailed off, lips turning downward. He glanced back at them. “Why are you here again?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes flitting around the office.

“Ducks,” Crowley answered, smooth and confident. The secretary quite sensibly appeared like he might inquire further, so Crowley waved a hand. The young man’s eyes unfocused, jaw slackening.

“Of course,” he said. “I remember now.”

Aziraphale gazed incredulously at Crowley. He shrugged. “Had to think fast,” he muttered, only a touch defensive. 

The secretary ushered them into the office. “Mr. Fell and Mr. Birdley, about the ducks, Minister.” He led them to two chairs opposite a large desk at the center of the room, then bowed himself out, snicking the door closed behind him.

Randall’s curls were even more tightly wound up close and in person. He sat behind the desk and looked from Aziraphale to Crowley. A line creased between his eyebrows. “Ducks?”

Aziraphale claimed a seat and sat at the edge. He leaned forward and placed one hand on the Minister’s desk. “Hello,” he said, with a quick, friendly smile that gave Crowley irrational jealousy.

The Minister, for his part, appeared suitably affected by the angelic attention and leaned back, a bit dazed.

“Is this about the spill?” he asked. “Because, frankly, there isn’t any proof that ducks don’t like being coated oil, it probably gives their feathers a nice sheen—”

“Minister Randall,” Aziraphale interrupted. Crowley tasted the Compulsion for Truth in his words. “Have you been influenced by the powers of the Damned?”

The crease between Randall’s eyebrows deepened. He glanced at Crowley like he wasn’t sure if he was being put on. “What’s that? New video game?”

“Have you been visited by a demon?” Aziraphale pressed on stalwartly.

The Minister pointed to Crowley, sprawled upon the chair beside him.

“Not that one,” Aziraphale snapped. “Before today, had you been in contact with a demonic influence, whether recognized or not by your human senses?”

Randall blinked slowly. His eyes had gone soft, not quite as glazed over as the secretary’s had been, but relaxed enough to indicate he was contemplating the demonic potential of his abundant political network, without worrying too much about a logical explanation.

“That bloke from Energy United might be a demon,” he said, as though it were a mildly interesting possibility he had considered from time to time.

“Who’s that?” Crowley asked, leaning forward. He hadn’t really expected to find anything here but human cowardice. Maybe the angel was right. Perhaps the Minister was being influenced. “An exec?”

“Corporate lobbyist,” the Minister said.

“Ah.” Crowley nodded in recognition, then caught Aziraphale’s eye. “Definitely one of my side’s.”

The angel ignored him.

“Has this lobbyist from Energy United put you under his thrall?” Aziraphale asked, growing excited. “Are you being controlled by the dark side?”

“Steady on,” Crowley muttered in his ear. “We’re after agents of Hell, not the Sith.”

“Adnachiel? Put me under his thrall?” Randall scoffed. Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. Adnachiel was a hunter-demon who collected bounties on petty thieves in the fifth ring of Hell, last Crowley knew. Almost all petty thieves went to Hell, after all, so there wasn’t ever any shortage of bounties. Crowley was surprised he’d given up the cushy gig.

Aziraphale’s face dropped, hopes draining away. “So you haven’t been persuaded by demonic wiles to drastically reverse your climate change position in advance of the international summit.”

“God, no!” Randall looked insulted. “I am not the kind of man to be influenced willy-nilly on significant, far-reaching policy decisions!”

“Oh, well—” Aziraphale said quickly, chastised. “Good, that’s good—”

“I’m doing it for the money,” Randall said.

There was a pause. Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m— I’m sorry?” Aziraphale stammered.

“Deniro, muchacho.” Randall rubbed his fingertips together. “Adnachiel was ready to send a buddy in to possess me, but I told him not to worry. I’ll sell the play much more convincingly without reeking of brimstone, I said— No offense,” he threw off-handedly at Crowley. Beside him, Aziraphale bristled.

“Crowley does not smell like—”

“Steady on,” Crowley said again. The angel huffed and sat back in his chair.

“So, Adnachiel says, ‘How much,’” Randall continued. His eyes danced, face lit with glee. “So, I said, ‘What’s your offer?’ And he said, ‘How about I don’t turn your eyeballs into maggots that burrow through your sockets into your brain?’” Randall chuckled, shaking his head. “And I said, ‘How about a different offer?’ And he said—”

“Young man.” Aziraphale stood over the Minister’s desk. Righteous fury swirled about the office. Randall’s mouth snapped shut. He leaned back in his high-backed chair and stared up at the angel, wide-eyed. “You are in a unique and important position. Your decisions have long-lasting consequences, not just for yourself and your country, but the world! Surely you wouldn’t toss that in the bin for a padded bank account.”

Randall gaped at him. “It’s quite a bit of padding.”

Crowley wasn’t surprised. He’d invented bribery of public servants, after all, way back when he’d convinced Gomorrah’s county clerk to overlook his donkey’s expired registration in exchange for a jug of beer and a bit of veil-flirting.

Aziraphale’s face darkened. The air crackled around him. “Why go into public service if you don’t intend to serve the public? You— you—” His eyes flashed— “bad Minister!”

“Ugh, you sound like my constituents,” Randall complained. He straightened suddenly, charm on full wattage. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No, thank the Almighty,” Aziraphale snarled, “and I wouldn’t vote for you if I were!”

Randall relaxed. He reached over to the phone on his desk and casually pressed a button.

“This has been a treat, gentlemen,” he said, brushing at his suit coat. “I’m not sure what it all has to do with ducks, but—”

“You’re the Minister of Weather Diversity,” Aziraphale protested. Two bright spots dotted his cheeks, and his eyes were dark, dark blue. “You can’t ignore the scientists and lie to everyone—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tried to interject.

“We’re already thirty years too late!” the angel blustered. “I’ll be damned if we saved the world from Armageddon only for it to self-destruct less than a decade later—”

“To be fair, we didn’t really do that much,” Crowley tried to point out, but the angel paid him no mind.

“Do the right thing!” he urged the Minister. “Please.” Crowley’s chest tightened at his soft plea. “This world, Earth: it’s yours, humanity’s.” His eyes darted to Crowley. “It’s not meant for us, but we love it as though it were. We’re not ready to leave.” Crowley shook his head in agreement, and the angel turned back to Randall. “Earth is your home, and it’s your responsibility to look after it.”

“It is?” Randall looked outraged. “Since when? Did Bones add another clause to my contract? She’s not allowed to do that without my solicitor having a look—”

“No!” Aziraphale huffed. “It’s humanity’s responsibility, and you are a human: ergo, it’s yours, too.”

Randall’s face cleared. “Well, that’s all right. People are pretty good at figuring these things out. I’m sure someone will find the golden ticket before too long.”

There was a loud knock at the door.

“Come in,” Randall called. Crowley unwound from his chair.

Two beefy humans in uniform entered the room. Sleek black radios crackled menacingly from their belts.

“Received a distress call,” said security human one. “Everything all right, Minister?”

“It wasn’t a distress call,” Randall replied, rolling his eyes. “It was an I’m-A-Very-Important-Person-Now-Come-Escort-My-Guests-Away-From-Me call.”

“Copy,” security human two said. He beelined for Aziraphale, crossing behind their chairs. “Off you go.” He reached for the angel’s arm.

Crowley waggled his fingers. “You really don’t want to be doing that,” he said. The security human stopped. His brow furrowed, hand paused inches from Aziraphale’s side.

The angel barely glanced at him. He stared at the Minister, his aura trembling.

“What if there isn’t any golden ticket?” he asked, terribly earnest.

Randall’s eyes flickered. Even he was not so far gone to remain unmoved in the face of Aziraphale’s sincerity. After a moment, though, he shrugged.

“Look, I didn’t make the mess.” He looked down at his desk. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, quiet enough even Crowley barely heard it. Then he shook out his momentary brush with remorse, and stood, beaming at them.

“Terribly sorry to cut our meeting short,” he said. “Rest assured that your ducks will be my top priority so long as I remain in office.” 

The security humans ushered them towards the door. Aziraphale’s guard didn’t attempt to touch him again, choosing instead to shuffle him across the office with an odd side-step shimmy move. 

“But—” Aziraphale tried to peek around him.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley muttered, leaning against the door jamb.

Aziraphale turned to him, eyes flashing. “Do something!” he hissed.

Crowley looked at him in surprise. “All right,” he said, readying his hands. “What are you thinking? Wormy gut or mullet?”

“Make him stop spreading lies! Make him take this seriously!” A flush slithered up Aziraphale’s neck and stained his soft cheeks. He looked as though his bow tie had been secured too tightly.

The guard was looking rather annoyed. He reached threateningly for the radio clipped to his belt.

Crowley darted forward and grabbed the angel by the elbow. No point drawing more attention to themselves than they already had. “We’re leaving,” he said and dragged Aziraphale into the hallway. He ignored his friend’s protests, not stopping until they were several corridors away.

Aziraphale yanked his arm free, quivering with rage. “Why did you do that? I wasn’t ready to go.”

Crowley’s eyebrows slid up his forehead at the haughty tone. It had been a spell since Aziraphale had used that voice with him.

“I wasn’t going to watch you get yourself in trouble,” Crowley said. “Besides, we got what we came for.”

“We most certainly did not!” Aziraphale’s flush stretched to the tips of his ears. His eyes were wide and dangerous. “In point of fact, we did absolutely fuck-all!”

Crowley was so shocked he clutched at his erstwhile pearls.

“We should have— should have miracled him into returning the bribe,” Aziraphale said.

“That would take away his free will,” Crowley said slowly, not a judgement, just a gentle reminder.

“And is free will the point?” Aziraphale demanded, searching his eyes. “Is it?”

Crowley blinked. He examined the question from multiple angles, and then all of them at once. “Yes,” he said with certainty.

Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttered. Crowley’s stomach sank to see the knot in his pale throat quiver and bob.

“Well,” the angel said finally, voice hardly above a shivering whisper. “It must be lovely to see so clearly what it’s all about.”

Crowley’s mouth slackened. He found himself at a loss.

“Aziraphale—”

“You know why you’re here, don’t you,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t a question. “You’ve always known.” Envy dripped from him like a melting ice cream cone, though he shook out his handkerchief and tried to mop up the mess. He smiled, a painful, guilt-stricken gesture that stuttered through Crowley’s heart. “And no one even had to tell you.”

Crowley felt strongly that there must be something he could say that would soothe his friend’s distress, but he’d be twice-damned if he could think of if. Instead he steeled his nerves and, throwing caution to the wind as he often did with all things other than the entity beside him, reached out to clasp Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel had already turned away, his eyes downcast. He edged down the hallway.

“I’m sorry, old boy,” he said. “I suppose I’m not feeling myself today— whatever that is.” His laugh was high-pitched, short of breath. The hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck prickled.

“Don’t—” he started, not sure how to finish.

“I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” Aziraphale said, still edging away.

“You don’t sleep,” Crowley countered.

“Right, exactly.” Aziraphale glanced longingly over his shoulder. “Perhaps I better, ah, give it a go.”

“Something’s wrong with you,” Crowley accused. “What is it?”

“Nothing, my dear. I’m pippy-top, really.” He grimaced, a terrible excuse for a smile, and bobbed an absent-minded curtsy. “Fancy a walk might clear my head. Cheerio.”

For the second time in as many days, Crowley watched as Aziraphale mumbled a nonsense farewell and scurried away from him.

* * *

The Prime Minister sent the evening nanny home early, and tucked her daughter into bed herself that night. Of course, Nanny Collinsby lived just two floors below them and would remain on-call in case of emergency, but the gesture was appreciated, she was sure.

“What did you learn today?” she asked, smoothing down the covers. Susie folded her hands together and leaned back on her pillow, considering.

“Tracy Rigsbee was lying when she said her parents took her to Dismaland,” she said. “They just went to Alton Towers like everyone else.”

Susan nodded. Intel on one’s contemporaries was highly valuable. “What else?”

“Mr. Phillips said my clarinet playing shows much potential!” Susie gasped, having just remembered. “He’s putting me in first chair.” She smiled dreamily, hands grasping at an imaginary clarinet.

Clarinet was a distraction, part of the Prime Minister sniffed. The greater part of her grinned back at her daughter, delighted. “That’s wonderful, empress,” she cooed and rubbed their noses together. Susie clucked, then gave her a swift, bony hug.

“Night, mummy,” she sighed and burrowed into sleep.

Susan watched her a moment, then pressed a kiss to her forehead and pushed herself from the bed. She clicked off the light and closed the door softly behind her.

 _Bastards,_ she thought, immediately overtaken by clinging resentment. It had loosened its hold while she tended to her daughter, but it was back now, throttling her. She clipped to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge, claimed a bubbly water, and slammed the door shut again. She unscrewed the cap and lifted the drink to her lips, sucking it down.

What was the point of being Prime Minister if she was controlled by the Party? Did Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel by committee?

Maybe she would tell Right Honorable Popplewell what he could do with that wig. Surely the Party couldn’t abandon her three months from election day.

Her heart trembled in her rib cage. She coughed on her water, spluttering down her shirt.

“Mummy? Are you all right?”

Susan wheezed and looked up. Susie stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands together.

“Fine, empress,” she said, finally managing to clear her throat. “Why are you out of bed?”

Susie glanced up at her from beneath pale lashes. “I’m scared, Mummy.”

“Did you have a nightmare?” She set the bottle down and dragged a sleeve across her mouth, then crossed and knelt upon the tile floor. She pulled her beloved toward her and reveled in the comfort of their touch, how it soothed her frayed edges in intimate moments like these.

“No.” Susie clutched at her shoulders, little fingers digging tightly. “Tracy said you might not be Prime Minister anymore.”

Susan’s breath caught rudely between her collarbones. She pulled away, peering down at her girl.

“What did you say?” she asked, cautious and a little haughty.

“I told her that was how Government worked, and maybe she should read a book.“

Susan huffed, trying vainly to disguise her pride.

“But— you will win, won’t you, mummy?” Susie’s sass drained away, and she blinked up at her, heart-wrenchingly nervous. “Only, no one could do such a good job as you, and the world needs you very much right now.”

“I’m Prime Minister of the U.K., not the world, Susie,” Susan scoffed, but she couldn’t help the quirk of her lip.

“Promise me you’ll try very hard to win, mummy,” Susie said, deadly serious.

Susan’s smile froze. She brushed a stray ringlet behind Susie’s ear. “Of course, empress,” she murmured. “I won’t let you down.”

She held her close, then sent her off to bed, resolving to put away the laptop and grab some uninterrupted REMs herself.

The door creaked as the little girl pushed her way into the bedroom. Her toes wiggled in the fibrous rugs upon the floor. She crossed to the bed and looked down upon the figure resting there.

Her mirror image lay peacefully beneath a plush comforter, golden hair strewn upon the pillow, eyes flicking restfully beneath thin lids. The girl stared at her, and wondered what it was like, to prefer injury upon oneself before countenance hurt upon a beloved.

She backed away into the shadows, shifting to her original form, and kept a watchful eye on the Prime Minister’s daughter.

She would never know, of course. The Beloved only received love, never bestowed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment, or I'll never talk to you again.


	5. Extended Cold Open

**The Day Before The First Day**

Aziraphale perched near the front of a crowded classroom, surrounded by his peers. Not a seat was open, and angels lined the circular stone walls. White drapes fluttered in the windows, overlooking a glorious mountainscape. There was no ceiling, only a gentle glow from above that suffused the room with peace and elegance. Aziraphale and his classmates wore matching robes of white and gold. Their wings rustled; harps strummed in the background.

“The Almighty is working on something new.” Gabriel stood tall and unflappable at the front of the room. “She has devoted all Her energies into it with a tireless, single-minded focus— for a whole half hour!” He allowed that to sink in. The angels murmured, hooked.

“This project, which we are calling the Great Experiment— my idea by the way— will take place between Heaven and Hell, on a wet spinny rock called Earth. The Almighty plans to give this rock to the favorite of her new Creations: humanity.”

“Why?” demanded one of Aziraphale’s classmates, a blunt-eyed knucklehead named Sandolphon.

Gabriel shrugged. “Who knows? Something to do with free will and the discovery of purpose through suffering and imperfect love.” He waved his hand. “But that’s not important, not to us. We are angels, and our divine purpose comes directly from above.”

Aziraphale glanced upward as a reflex. He’d had few run-ins with the Alpha and Omega personally, but he liked to imagine Heaven’s light emanated from Her wise and all-knowing heart. He shivered in awe.

“Our purpose is to keep the legions of Hell at bay,” Gabriel continued. The lines of his face hardened like stone. “Until the Great War, when we will shatter their defenses and grind their bones into dust.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably at his desk. He’d only ever been in one war before, and he hadn’t liked it at all. He didn’t understand why Lucifer’s minions had to leave Heaven in the first place. Surely there was room enough for everyone, if they could just get along. God’s love was infinite, after all.

Sandolphon grinned. “I like war,” he said. “I think I’ll like a Great War even more. When will that be?”

Gabriel pointed at him. “Sandolphon, I love your enthusiasm, but interrupt me again and I’ll throw you off that balcony.” His face creased in a smile that did not at all undermine his threat. Sandolphon leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know when the Great War will be. No one does. I suppose we’ll get more clues along the way, like a scavenger hunt that goes on for all eternity. Fun, right?” He clapped his hands. “The point is, we have to be ready at all times to serve God’s ineffable plans.”

Aziraphale, who fancied himself a lover of words, repeated this one to himself. Rather less than twenty books had yet been written, and Aziraphale had read all of them at least twice, even _The Maintenance Manual for Conscientious Harpists_. He’d not heard or read this word before, though, and he didn’t know what it meant, but it sent a little thrill in his heart just the same. ‘Ineffable,’ he mouthed and wiggled, pleased.

Gabriel noticed his lexical rapture and paced between the rows to his desk. Aziraphale sat up straighter, surprised.

“Do you like that word, Aziraphale?” Gabriel tipped his head, lips curled upward in polite amusement.

Aziraphale nodded, wide-eyed.

“Do you know what it means?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“It means God’s plans are not effable,” Gabriel explained magnanimously. Upon seeing this did not diminish Aziraphale’s confusion like he’d expected, he added with just a touch of asperity, “They cannot be spoken. They are too big for words.”

“Too big for words?” Aziraphale’s first instinct was dismay, but that was quickly swept aside by a crashing wave of wonder. He was bright enough to understand just how little he knew of the great beyond. “Oh my.”

“That’s right.” Gabriel nodded with approval. He said the word again, like he almost understood it.

“More fun news,” he continued, turning to the rest of the class. “One among you will be the first to serve God’s plans on Earth.”

The class tittered. Aziraphale glanced around, wondering who the lucky sod might be.

He looked up again and startled to find Gabriel still standing beside his desk, gazing down at him.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped. “Me?”

Gabriel’s smile was bland. “The Almighty asked for you by name.”

“But…” Aziraphale blinked, utterly confused. There must have been a mistake, some other Aziraphale the Almighty surely meant. “Why?”

“Better not to ask.” Gabriel flashed his teeth. “It’s ineffable.”

Crawly lounged at the back of a dilapidated classroom crowded with gray floors and filing cabinets. Fluorescent lights flickered from a low ceiling. His robe bunched at the knee when he kicked his legs up on the seatback in front of him, flashing black sandals that criss-crossed up his calves. The demon occupying his footrest flicked his head and growled, so Crawly poked him in the neck with a toe. The demon ground his teeth but leaned forward, giving Crawly more room to recline, which he did, indecently.

The classroom was even more claustrophobic than usual, buzzing with the ever-present anticipation of general destruction. Crawly’s fellow demons grunted amongst themselves and paid little attention to the figure standing at the front of the room.

Beelzebub spoke in a monotone, making no attempt to be compelling. Her eyes crossed as she swayed on her feet. Crawly lent half an ear— more than his classmates— and scribbled a quick note on a piece of parchment. He breathed on the drying ink, then folded the paper in half and waved it enticingly at the demon sitting next to him.

“Run this up to Hastur,” he said, just enough of a caress in his voice to keep it from an outright demand. The demon glared at him, suspicious, but took the note like Crawly knew she would and slithered two rows over and several desks up to drop it in Hastur’s lap.

The duke glared at the parchment then twisted around in his seat. Crawly waggled his eyebrows at him. He willed Hastur to take the bait and open the letter— have his wig snatched—

“Surveillance reports say the unbenevolent despot known as the Almighty is working on something new called Earth,” Beelzebub droned. “Where creations made in Her image will walk upon two feet with five toes each, and arms and legs, and all the rest.” A spitball whizzed past her head and landed with a splat on the dusty chalkboard. “She plans to test them with something unpleasant called free will. “

“God’s gotten bored of the angels, has She?” Crawly piped up from the back of the room, interest piqued. His voice cut through the drone. Conversations died out, and Crawly’s peers glanced from him to Beelzebub, taking notice that something if not iniquitous at least moderately irritating was about to happen.

“Can’t say I blame Her,” he drawled, glancing around hopefully for agreement. “Boring, uppity sods without an ounce of imagination between them, am I right?” His question hung in the air, unanswered.

Beelzebub blinked. “I’m talking,” she said, bemused. “Why are you also talking?”

Crawly swung his legs to the floor and unfurled himself from the desk. “Did you say free will?” His voice rose, intrigued. “What’s that?”

Beelzebub rolled her eyes, all of them, even the ones poking out from her kneecaps. She answered in her long-suffering monotone. “It’s space enough from God to choose their own actions, right or wrong, without interference.” At this, she scoffed. “So She says, anyway; we’ll see how long that lasts.”

Crawly’s mind raced. “Well, that’s...” A warm surge of curiosity fizzed in his chest. “...pretty neat.”

Beelzebub’s brow lifted with incredulity. She turned away from Crawly, clearly a lost cause. “The Almighty is sending an angel to watch over the humans and guide them toward righteousness.” Her mouth puckered on the word, and she retched just the slightest bit.

“Hang on,” Crawly interrupted again. “How’s that fair? I thought the point was for them to make their own decisions—”

“Since when has the Almighty acted with consistency?” Beelzebub said. Her eyes blazed briefly, but then she settled back and shrugged. “I suppose encompassing all of existence must get a bit confusing at times.” She lifted a hand to forestall any argument. “I’m not saying I agree with Her, I’m just saying She’s got a lot on her plate, that’s all.”

“But why should the angels have all the fun?” Crawly argued. “Shouldn’t we have some representation up there? Show the humans what a heinous transgression is all about?”

Beelzebub glared at him. “I was getting to that,” she snapped. “Satan, you are annoying.”

Crawly smirked, tossing his hair at the compliment.

“The gates to Earth are equally balanced between Heaven and Hell,” Beelzebub said. “Whatever powers they send, we may send an equal and opposing force, to tempt the humans toward vice and corruption, etcetera etcetera. That way the experiment can remain—” she twirled her hands— “nonpartisan.”

Crawly shrugged. Seemed to him it would make more sense for everyone to stay out of it. He wisely kept this observation to himself.

“So we are sending a demon to Earth to oppose their angel, and more when we get wind of Heaven sending more. As for the first demon to go—” She looked at Crawly, who’s heart began to flutter in spite of himself. “Crawly, you’ve been by far the most irritating demon here today, so I’m sending you.” She glanced around at his classmates, unimpressed. “Really, it’s like the rest of you aren’t even trying.”

“Me?” Crawly blinked, dazed. “Go to Earth? Leave Hell?”

A shriek drew their attention. Hastur leapt from his chair, swatting frantically at the top of his head, which had abruptly caught on fire. Flames licked away his tangled mop-head hair, while Crawly’s note floated innocently to the floor and disintegrated. Crawly glanced at him, then back at Beelzebub, too gobsmacked to appreciate his own prank.

Beelzebub strode forward and clasped his hand in hers. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “You’ve earned it. Now, get up there and make some trouble.”

**Stonehenge - 3100 B.C.**

Aziraphale stood on a misty moor and watched the humans lug another mammoth stone into place. The current generation used ropes, levers and no small amount of cleverness to manipulate mass far greater than they could hope with only their own strength. Aziraphale watched them with pride. What an exciting time to be on Earth! He sent his thanks to the Almighty for allowing him to witness it.

“What do you suppose the circles mean?” a voice inquired in his ear. “Reckon they even know?”

Aziraphale startled. The demon Crawly slithered from the mist to stand beside him, squinting at the humans.

“Oh. Hello,” Aziraphale said with a small tilt of the head, alight with suspicion but determined to be courteous. The demon turned his slit-eyed gaze upon him. “My, we do seem to cross paths. And how have you been? Still, ah, compelled to acts of base villainy?”

Crawly flashed his incisors. “The basest.”

Aziraphale sighed, his disappointment sincere. “We are all bound to our functions. And what sort of villainy are you instigating here?” he asked, hardly expecting a straightforward answer.

The demon’s features twisted with bemusement. “Tried to convince them this was an alien landing pad,” he said, flicking a hand as the humans hauled another slab across the moor. “But they just keep using it to honor their dead.”

“Alien landing pad?” Aziraphale scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.” 

Crawly glanced at him. “It’s a big universe, angel,” he said. “Awfully short-sighted of you to think Earth is the only planet with a bit of life going on.”

“But we know it is,” Aziraphale argued. “Surely Heaven would know if the Almighty was running multiple experiments.”

Crawly shrugged. “Don’t you ever wonder…”

“What?” Aziraphale asked when he trailed off, intrigued despite himself. He often found himself like this, hanging to the demon’s every word. He supposed it was a trick he’d mastered to catch the humans’ attention while tempting them toward vice and corruption. It was just that Crawly’s conversation was so much more interesting than that of his fellow angels. They talked about the humans, mostly, but also placed they’d visited, agriculture, the fermentation of grapes, and stars. It was a far cry from his typical conversation with the other angels, who mostly liked to talk about smiting and their blasted harps.

The demon elected not to finish his question. “What are you doing in this part of the world, anyway?” he asked instead. “I thought you were watching over Enoch the sourpuss.”

“Ah, yes.” He grimaced a smile. “Enoch has seen fit to continue his ministry without, uhm, day-to-day celestial oversight.”

“Hm.” Crawly’s lips twitched. “So, here for pleasure, then?”

Aziraphale bristled. “Certainly not!” He fussed at the neck of his perfectly creased robes. “I am here on very important business in pursuit of the salvation and betterment of humanity— not that you would know anything about that.”

Crawly shuddered in disgust. “I’d rather be cooked in spider stew than know anything about that.” He picked at his chin. “Sympathetic creatures, spiders.”

Aziraphale took a deep, calming breath of the fresh country air. “I like this place,” he declared. “I’ve been here once before, after that dreadful business with Adam’s sons.” His face fell, but then his eyes softened, roaming over the rolling green hills and bluebird sky. “I was called over to direct a bit of glacial melt— ended up creating the English Channel, if you’d believe it— and found the whole experience quite reviving. I think I’d like to settle down here sometime before it’s all over.”

“Before what’s all over?” Crawly said.

Aziraphale’s lips pursed. “Well— all this.” He gestured helpfully at the landscape. “The Earth has to end someday,” he said, like it was common knowledge.

“It does?” Crawly asked. Aziraphale tipped back on his feet and nodded, musing.

“I imagine once the Almighty has finished Her experiment with the humans and decided whether they’re good or bad, She’ll want to dispense with Earth; tidy up her laboratory, as it were.”

“So God created Earth just to destroy it in the end?” Crawly clarified.

Aziraphale stiffened. He liked Crawly’s inquisitive nature, even if he did rather put him on the spot with his questions.

“Of course, one can’t know for sure,” he said with a touch of haughtiness. “God’s plans are ineffable, after all.”

Crawly regarded him with strange yellow eyes. “You really like that word, don’t you?”

Aziraphale picked at his fingernails, ignoring him.

“How can an ineffable plan have an end, anyway? Isn’t saying that it has an end saying something about it, which can’t be done because it’s too big for words?” He tilted his head and repeated it, mocking. “Ineffable.”

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Even if the plan does have an end, it’s going to be quite a long time from now.”

**Tower of Babel - 2242 B.C.**

Townsfolk ran squawking through the streets, words spilling from their tongues in knots and jumbles. Children cried and their mothers screeched back at them, unable to be understood. Aziraphale watched with dismay.

“God’s holy punishment,” Crawly said with the slightest twist of malice. He stood beside Aziraphale on a hillside overlooking the tower at the city’s heart. Its boastful levels staggered upward toward the heavens. “They dared to build a tower, so now they will be scattered about the Earth, unable to speak to one another.”

“They rebelled against God.”

“How?”

Aziraphale shifted, attempting to flick off his uncertainty. “By depending on each other instead of the Almighty.”

“Uh, the Almighty who just drowned all the rest of the people in a great flood? _That_ Almighty?”

Aziraphale nodded, curt, and fell silent.

They watched an old married couple stride up the road, gesticulating forcefully at one another. Their words were garbled, but somehow they managed to make themselves understood. They turned a corner, and their laughter cackled down the alleyway behind them.

“This is only a setback,” Crawly said. “It’s not the end for these humans. They’ll come back from this, faster and stronger than even the Almighty expects.”

Aziraphale brightened, standing taller. “That’s right,” he said, as though they were in perfect agreement. “This is a character-building moment.”

He bounced on his toes, delighted with the Almighty’s intent to refine these humans by suffering, and ignored Crawly’s sigh of disgust.

**Egypt - 1500 B.C.**

They stood in a dusty square hemmed in by mud-brick houses. Once again, townsfolk were screaming through the streets, but this time they shielded their heads and peered up at the darkening skies in horror. Aziraphale and Crowley held their shawls above their heads with both hands, eyes likewise lifted heavenward.

“Ten plagues, you said?” Crawly asked.

Aziraphale grimaced. “Yes, but then a prophet will free God’s people and lead them to the promised land.”

A frog plopped with a splat on his head. He shouted and flapped his shawl until it tumbled into the dirt. The frog stretched shaky legs and hopped away.

“Right,” Crawly said, popping the ‘t’, quite unimpressed. “But until then, frogs.”

**Troy - 1185 B.C.**

“Aziraphale!” Crawly called his name the moment he caught sight of him. It was only after the angel turned in the square, eyes flashing with irritation, that Crawly realized he’d called his name at all, and that he was standing in the middle of the road waving his arms above his head. It occurred to him perhaps Aziraphale was on assignment and didn’t want to attract attention.

“Angel!” he called instead, doubling down on the arm-flapping.

Aziraphale said a short word to the humans accompanying him, then stormed across the square.

Crawly opened his arms in welcome. “Fancy meeting you here—”

Aziraphale yanked at his bicep and dragged him from the crowd. The angel nodded to the civilians as they passed, then pulled him around a corner into an abandoned armory. He glanced in both directions and briefly upwards, then crossed his arms and glared at Crawly.

“Is this your doing?” he demanded.

Crawly was taken aback by his tone. “Is what my doing?”

“The Trojan War!” Aziraphale gesticulated wildly. “The death, the endless fighting-”

“No.” Crawly’s offense melted away at the dreadful weariness etched in the lines of Aziraphale’s face. He’d never seen the angel without at least a moderately effusive glow of harmonious delight before. “Hell doesn’t get in the way of the humans fighting each other, you know that, but… I wouldn’t drive them to this.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders loosened and he collapsed against the wall.

“I don’t like war,” he admitted. “I never have.” His eyes flicked up to Crawly’s, then back down to his feet. “It makes me all confused, and— well, a bit tetchy.” His words had the turn of an apology in them.

Crawly leaned against the wall beside him.

“What about Sodom and Gomorrah?” he couldn’t help but ask. He never could, after all. “Heard you were there.”

His stomach dropped, chest tightening in horror when the angel’s eyes filled with tears.

“I asked them to wait,” Aziraphale said, brows turned down in shame. “I said, give me more time. The people just need a little guidance. But Gabriel said no.” The angel sniffed. “Then I begged him not to do it, and well, you know Gabriel— he really didn’t like that. So he dragged me along and made me watch.”

Crawly’s heart squeezed as Aziraphale dried his eyes. The angel fished a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Afterwards, he forced me along with them for poultry and beer. He called it divine bonding time.” He shuddered. Crawly winced in sympathy.

“What about you?” Aziraphale pocketed his handkerchief and blinked up at him. “Still getting commendations left and right, despite my best efforts to thwart you?”

“Mm,” Crawly said noncommittally, though that was a concise and accurate summary of his situation. He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, they are rather thrilled with me at the moment. I came up with this little deception, see, involving a wooden horse…”

He trailed off, deciding Aziraphale probably wouldn’t care for certain aspects of his most recent stroke of brilliance.

The angel tilted his head, inquisitive.

“Anway, I think the war will be over soon,” Crawly told him.

**The Peloponnesian War - 404 B.C.**

“These humans don’t know how to keep their organs inside their bodies, do they?” Crawly remarked. 

He glanced at Aziraphale and sighed. The angel insisted on keeping his heart on his sleeve, vital and vulnerable, just like the silly humans with their bloody entrails spread across the battlefield. Aziraphale’s face was gray, and his eyes shone as he surveyed the dead and mutilated. Crawly wished his friend was better at tucking away those painful feelings, at guarding his tender heart.

“The war will be over soon,” he said, although he knew nothing of the sort. “The Greeks can’t fight for hundreds of years, can they?”

“They’re not following God’s Plan,” Aziraphale bemoaned.

“No, angel,” Crawly said, “they’re following their own.”

Just then, a company of Spartans thundered past on horseback, spattering their robes with mud and worse filth. The soldiers’ arms and legs were proudly painted with the blood of their slain, and their mounts wore intricate headdresses of war.

“I asked Gabriel to reassign me,” Aziraphale admitted after the Greeks rode away.

Crawly’s eyes widened.

The angel huffed a strained laugh. “He did not appreciate that.”

“Gabriel’s an uppity prig who wouldn’t appreciate a good shag if he could get one,” Crawly spat.

Aziraphale tittered, a hand over his mouth. “Oh my.”

Crawly’s lips turned up at his friend’s shocked delight. Aziraphale quickly attempted to squelch it, of course. His eyes flicked upward and his smile faded, shoulders hunching with self-inflicted guilt.

“I heard about your work with Homer,” Crawly said. Aziraphale brightened, then waved a modest hand. “Really, angel. I never thought he’d get the whole tale down on paper— well, parchment. It’s a true achievement for humanity, and it won’t soon be forgotten.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale fluttered. Crawly watched with satisfaction as the glow he was so enamored of sparked and ignited. “Thank you.” The words were sweetly, earnestly given, and Crawly immediately ached to receive them again.

“What’s it called?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with his smile. _“The Odyssey,”_ he said.

Crawly nodded, impressed. “Bloody good name.”

The angel caught his eye and held it, there on the battlefield with men bleeding around them. Crawly shifted on his feet, pinned.

And then the angel blinked, sighed, and turned away.

“Come on, then.” He trudged into the carnage. “We each of us have our jobs to do.”

**Edict of Milan - 313 A.D.**

Aziraphale stood outside a stone palace and gazed up at its painted dome. Sunshine warmed his face, sinking into his bones. He breathed deeply, allowing the temperate climate to soothe his buzzing nerves.

“Thought I might find you here,” a voice rasped beside him.

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. He turned, joy bubbling over when he spotted his old friend.

“Crowley!” The demon still wore those ridiculous quartz glasses, and his hair was cut close to his head, but Aziraphale couldn’t find a single reason to complain. His face split in a smile, and he looked reverently back to the palace, quite contented with life. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Oh, indeed,” Crowley agreed, rocking back on his heels.

“Emperors Constantine and Licinius are in there right now, agreeing finally to end the persecution of Christians, once and for all.” Aziraphale bounced on his toes. “Everyone will be allowed to worship as they choose. Religious violence is at an end!”

“Mm,” Crowley said. “At an end, right.” Aziraphale expected him to continue, but then the demon flicked his head and caught his eye.

“Care for a spot of lunch?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s brow lifted in surprise.

Crowley shrugged. “Passed a tavern having a fish stew contest on my way in. Thought you might be interested.”

Wonderment suffused him. The end of religious persecution _and_ fish stew? Life really was a beautiful thing.

“That sounds divine,” he gushed, so sincere he didn’t catch his own slip.

**The First Crusade - 1099 A.D.**

Aziraphale hurried down a sterile hallway, wingtips clicking across a white marble floor. The walls glowed with a gentle white light. He turned a corner, clutching clammy hands together to keep them from shaking. His breath was loud in his ears.

At the end of the hallway was a set of double doors stretching up and up and out of sight. Aziraphale paced towards them, heart knocking at his throat. He paused at the threshold, brushed at his suit coat and fiddled with his bow tie. Then he pulled himself together and rapped his knuckles on the door.

It cracked open to admit him, snapping shut again after he passed within. Aziraphale swallowed and walked purposefully ahead.

“Hello,” he said when he reached the archangel’s stark office. He attempted to sound brave but only managed a bit louder than usual.

Gabriel turned. He’d dusted his hair with gold sparks, the ponce. Aziraphale jumped slightly at the thought, so fully formed he could hear Crowley’s voice in his ear.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel flashed his teeth. “Long time, no see. It is Aziraphale, right?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, and Gabriel chuckled. “I’m just kidding, I know it’s you. Man, has it been a long time! How have you been? How are you holding up down there?” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, I really don’t. Not to worry, though, just a few hundred more years and you should be approved to come back home.” 

He smiled encouragingly. Aziraphale managed to return it with a sickly one of his own. Then he took a deep breath and steeled himself.

“Gabriel, there’s been a terrible mistake,” he said.

Gabriel’s eyes widened. “Really? Did International Express leave another ‘Sorry we missed you’ note on the door?” He huffed in exasperation. “I’ve been here all day!”

“What? No!” Aziraphale flicked his head, agitated. “It’s this crusade business. Gabriel, these are peasants, untrained and barely armed. They’ll be massacred.”

Gabriel rubbed his jaw. “Right, well, that’s their choice, to be massacred. And the Almighty set this all up so they can make their own choices, so…” His voice trailed off and he hunched his shoulders in a ‘what can you do?’ expression.

“But they believe they’re marching on Heaven’s behalf! That dratted Pope has riled them up to it— I voted against him, as you’ll recall— but all this will do is get thousands of peasants soundly murdered and incite religious hatred in the region for who knows how long!”

“Hundreds of years,” Gabriel nodded.

Aziraphale nodded with him, then stopped. “What?”

“The crusades will last hundreds of years,” Gabriel said. “Our numbers have plateaued, and the shareholders want to see growth. This is our new strategy for getting the word out about God’s love.”

“Your strategy is to murder thousands of impoverished countrymen on a fool’s mission they believe is sanctioned by the Almighty?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous.

Gabriel pouted. “It’s just a first trial,” he said. “But at least we’re trying something.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “I find it hard to believe this is part of God’s plan.”

The archangel’s face hardened. “Everything we do is part of God’s plan,” he said. “We’re angels.”

Aziraphale gaped at him, unsure what to say to that.

“We want you to bolster this priest, Peter the Hermit. Odd guy, real passionate speaker, and the peasants are just falling over themselves for him.” Gabriel rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “He’s going to take the Pope’s call and spread it across the west, but we think it’d be helpful if he had a little—” Gabriel waggled his fingers— “supernatural motivation.” At Aziraphale’s continued speechlessness, he elaborated. “You know, visit him in a dream, emphasize his divine purpose, something like that.”

“I won’t do it,” Aziraphale said before he was aware he was going to say it.

Gabriel’s brow lowered. He rocked back on his heels, stumped. “You won’t?”

Aziraphale’s heart pounded furiously. Panic froze his lungs when he realized he’d just flaunted a direct order from Heaven. “I— I can’t believe this is right,” he said, truth flowing unbidden. “There has to be another way to improve our numbers—”

“If you don’t do what Heaven tells you to do, you can’t be an angel,” Gabriel said, eyeing him like a headstrong toddler. He lifted his hands and shrugged, like that was obvious. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“But—” Terror rose up and choked him. _Stop talking, don’t risk it, you idiot!_ he screamed at himself and shuddered, but something drove him onward, dragging the words from his throat. It felt like retching, and he swayed on his feet, shaking and sick in the aftermath.

“—what if Heaven is wrong?”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, wished to take them back. His soul shrieked at the threat of being shut out from the Almighty, of losing his angelhood. If he wasn’t an angel, he wasn’t anything at all.

Gabriel’s face darkened, scraps of amiability sliding off him like shadows onto the floor. He approached Aziraphale, stopped when they were toe-to-toe and glowered down at him. “Only the Fallen question God,” he said, his voice layered with an earnestness that made Aziraphale shiver. “Heaven— and I— are extensions of God. Our plans are God’s plans. So, the only question is… do _you_ have a question, Aziraphale?”

“Question? Me?” Aziraphale squeaked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Crowley snuck through a Byzantine monastery, slinking in the shadows. He darted down a balustrade and crouched behind a pillar. Carefully, he poked his head around the side and watched the monks prepare for dinner. Three new casks of wine had been brought up from the cellar and crowded conspicuously at one end of the table.

He laughed to himself. “That’s right,” he murmured. “Bottoms up.”

“Crowley.”

He jumped at his name, the voice cool and unimpressed as always. He scrambled to stand, knocking his knee against the stone pillar.

“Beelzebub,” he greeted the Prince of Hell, jumping on one leg. Though strained, his voice was remarkably jovial. “Adnachiel,” he nodded at the demon beside her. “An unexpected surprise.”

“Most surprises are unexpected,” Adnachiel said.

“What are you doing here, Crowley?” Beelzebub asked.

“Hey, you just dropped in on me,” Crowley pointed out. “Without so much as a fourth-dimensional buzz, I might add. Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”

The demons stared at him, mute.

“Oh, alright, I’ll tell you,” Crowley caved. “The monks think they’re drinking watered-down wine, but I switched the water for more wine, so really they’re drinking full-proof wine.” He laughed to himself, then peeked again around the pillar at the humbly restrained meal taking place below. “They are going to be so sloshed.”

“What purpose does this serve in gaining souls for Satan?” Beelzebub asked.

Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s mostly just a good prank,” he admitted. “But you never know, there could be a drunkard in that group that I just nudged off the straight and narrow,” he added quickly when Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed.

“I thought we had an understanding when you turned down my offer to join the dread council,” she said. “We accepted your request to stay on Earth so you could engage more souls for Hell and instigate greater havoc and mayhem than has ever before been witnessed in human history— your words, not mine.”

“Well, I’m building up to it,” Crowley said. “Can’t rush these things.”

Beelzebub’s lips tightened, a familiar little puckering that let Crowley know he’d managed to irritate her once again.

“Getting a bunch of monks drunk was not what I had in mind.”

Crowley guffawed. “Monks drunk. Monk drunks. Drunk monks. Oh, come on, it’s funny!”

“Heaven is on the brink of instigating a religious war among the humans.” Beelzebub’s voice was snappish, all business. Crowley straightened. “Their numbers have taken a dip, thanks in no small part to our growing market share. Now they’re running scared.” She allowed herself a small satisfied smile before it disappeared, replaced with a stony glare. “We want you to stop it.”

“Me?” Crowley asked. “I mean— the humans are gonna do what they’re gonna do, right?” He paused. “Heaven’s really starting a religious war?”

“They’re calling it the crusades,” Adnachiel said. “The fighting will last for centuries.”

Crowley grimaced. Aziraphale was not going to like that.

He struck an unconcerned pose and studied his nail beds. “What’s that matter to us? Isn’t a religious crusade kind of our thing? War, violence, fanatic hypocrisy…”

Beelzebub swatted at a fly buzzing around her face. The toad on her head belched in protest.

“If Heaven is behind it, then we must be against it. So, since this war is on Heaven’s behalf, it is good, and because we are bad, we must stop it.” Her face twisted. “It’s all very confusing!” she burst out. “Trust Heaven to muck things up like this.”

Although Aziraphale would probably appreciate it if he stopped the war, even if it meant thwarting Heaven.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he said airily. “Never let it be said you can’t count on Crowley.”

Beelzebub’s eyebrows twitched. She was taken aback by his quick acquiescence, he could tell. Her eyes narrowed. 

“Of course you’ll do it,” she sneered. “You serve at Hell’s pleasure, demon. Enough drunk monks. Time to earn your spot at Lucifer’s table.”

She turned on her heel, ready to dissolve into dust, when she stopped, her body stiffening unnaturally. She glanced jerkily over her shoulder.

 _“You’ve been a good servant, Crowley,”_ Satan spoke with her tongue. _“Don’t disappoint me now.”_

With a flash of black smoke and a faint tang of sulfur, the callers from the Underworld were gone. Crowley stood alone on the balustrade.

He peeked around the railing and watched the monks go about their supper a bit more loosely than usual. One monk swayed in his seat; another rose for seconds, sashaying clumsily on his way to the kitchen. Crowley thought of Aziraphale.

“Never enough drunk monks,” he muttered. Then he sprinted across the balustrade, down the staircase, through the front door, and out into the darkened city streets.

He found the angel at their usual spot in any new town— sitting on a ledge overlooking the city at sunset.

Crowley skipped up the cliffs, sloshing the jug of wine he’d swiped from the market on his way over. His spirits were high as he plopped himself in the grass beside Aziraphale. He was eager to tell him about the assignment. 

Aziraphale looked up at him wearily. Crowley faltered at the angel’s downtrodden appearance. 

“Wine?” He lifted the jug.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, brightening slightly.

They hadn’t any cups, so Crowley pulled out the cork and passed him the bottle. The angel brought it shakily to his lips and closed his eyes, taking in a long pull.

“Easy,” Crowley protested when Aziraphale sputtered and coughed, eyes streaming. He knocked him on the back. Aziraphale gasped for breath, then swiped his mouth and passed the jug to Crowley.

“Something happen?” he asked nonchalantly, watching the angel from the corner of his eye. His cheeks were flushed, a fine sheen of sweat coating his forehead. He breathed, quick and shallow, through chapped wine-stained lips. His features had taken on a plastic appearance as though he’d forgotten how to hold his face. In short, he looked terrible. Crowley’s anxiety mounted. He took a measured sip and waited for Aziraphale to respond.

The angel sat without speaking for some time, watching the sun bleed daylight from the sky. Crowley’s knee bounced with suppressed tension, until Aziraphale abruptly returned to himself, giving his head a quick shake. Crowley’s evil innards turned to dust at the hopeless look on his face.

“They want me to visit the priest who will lead the first crusade,” Aziraphale said. “They want me to give him some—” he winced a painful smile— “divine motivation.”

Crowley remembered his own assignment. Finally, he had Hell’s support, indeed their direct order to work toward ends that diminished human suffering.

“‘M sorry, angel,” he said. “I know the thought of more war gets you all wibbly.”

“I can’t do it,” Aziraphale said. Crowley noticed his eyes were very wide, blue irises drowning in a white sea. 

“They’ll kick you out if you don’t,” he said, not quite following along. Aziraphale had never voiced anything remotely resembling dissent against Heaven before. “You’ll Fall.” The evening was quiet, drooping with their long and intricate history.

“You could do it,” Aziraphale said. Crowley met his eyes and he swallowed, throat bobbing with a mouthful of phantom wine. “For me.”

Crowley’s orders were to stop the crusades and put an end to Heaven’s religious meddling on Earth— not goad a fanatical priest to be its spiritual leader.

“You might even get another commendation,” Aziraphale suggested. “Surely hell will look fondly upon actions taken to foment war.” His face was taut, straining to hide something— terror, Crowley realized abruptly. His friend was awash, at sea.

“That’s true,” he said.

“And,” the angel sighed, dropping his forehead upon his knuckles, wretched, “I’ll owe you one.”

“Alright,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked up, suspicious. “Alright, what?”

“I’ll do it,” he shrugged, “for you.”

The angel blinked. Crowley’s heart fluttered with the sweep of his eyelashes.

“Really?” he asked.

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time— indeed, he suspected he’d never been trusted by anyone to do something for them against his own interests before. Admittedly, Aziraphale didn’t know just how against Crowley’s interests his request was, but the particular thought of doing this favor for the angel, the first thing he’d ever truly asked of him for himself, overwhelmed Crowley with a depth of satisfaction he’d never before experienced.

“Sure,” he shrugged, just a tad breathless. His pulse pounded in his chest. He cleared his throat, unaccountably nervous. “It won’t be the first time I’ve haunted a deranged priest,” he tried to joke, though it was a true statement.

Aziraphale stared at him, blue eyes darkening as his corporeal form sharpened, something shifting underneath. Crowley couldn’t look away. For his deference, he found himself graced to witness an angel’s gratitude, and more specifically, Aziraphale’s.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he breathed. Two bright spots burned high on his cheekbones, like the stars Crowley had left circling each other in a different lifetime. He bit his lip, brows creasing, directing Crowley’s eyes downward to his mouth.

“How can I go back and serve Heaven after this?” he wondered aloud.

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. A rhetorical question, surely. There’d be no need for Crowley to visit the priest if not to cover for him with Heaven.

“Just think of all the good things Heaven will do to outweigh the bad ones,” he couldn’t quite believe he found himself saying.

Aziraphale shook his head, adamant. “I won’t forget.”

Crowley downed the last of the wine and slung the jug into the night’s sky. It thunked and clanked down the cliffside, shattering unseen against the rocks. He uncurled himself from the grass and slipped off his glasses, pocketing them. His pupils dilated.

“Neither will I, angel.” He flashed his teeth in the dark, then turned and picked his way down the ledge, back into town.

**Oxford University grand opening - 50 Years Later**

Crowley wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t even disappointed.

It’d been a few decades since they’d come across each other, but Crowley had followed word of his accomplishment. Heaven had lured him back into their fold with the dangled offer to oversee the opening of the world’s first English-speaking university.

Aziraphale was ecstatic, that was what mattered. Like he said, Crowley wasn’t disappointed.

He also wasn’t about to let Aziraphale off the hook for his return favor.

He strode across the grounds, tunic fluttering in the summer breeze, and pushed through the crowd of monks and clerics celebrating on the lawn. He reached the man of the hour and grasped his hand, shaking it vigorously. Aziraphale’s turban slipped. 

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, pulling Crowley away from the crowd, around a stone pillar and into the garden (always the garden).

Crowley smirked. “I need a favor.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. His gaze flicked nervously upward. 

“You need a favor?” he repeated. “I hope you don’t mean to imply that I would ever— could ever help a— a demon do… whatever sort of shenanigans it is a demon gets up to.” His laugh was like a pebble skipping over water.

The little green courtyard glowed with sunlight, so Crowley slipped off his glasses and leaned forward. He tugged Aziraphale’s sleeve and pulled him closer, tilting his mouth down against his friend’s ear. He whispered, low enough so neither Heaven nor Hell could overhear:

“I believe we had an Arrangement, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends. I'm not sure I'll be finishing this fic, but I wrote the bulk of this chapter back in August and wanted to share!


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